Reset
by AllHeroesWearHats
Summary: Nightmares have plagued Francis for as long as he could remember, but it's only now that he's realising they may be more real than he thought. A small, dirty old briefcase is about to blow apart everything he knew to be true, and place him in more danger than he can imagine. 'What would you do, if you suddenly realised that the life you'd lived was never your truly own'
1. Panic Locks You In

**Disclaimer: Image doesn't belong to me. I hope you enjoy reading!**

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><p><span>Reset<span>

_There's a man who speaks to him with a deep voice, though the words are lost to him. He holds something in his hands, a shape of colour but it's too dark to make anything out. Then there's tension, palpable and thick in the air, which covers the setting like a heavy blanket. He answers the man and the tension grows._

_There's a glint._

_Then a bang._

_Everything fades to black and he wakes up screaming._

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><p>Francis frowns in discomfort at the light hitting the outside of his eyelids. He was dozing contently, but now that he was awake he noticed the discomfort and shifts restlessly under the blankets in an attempt to ease away the ache in his back. The mattress isn't as soft as it looks and his bones aren't as protected as they once were in his youth; now that the previously hard and smooth muscle has given way to ghastly see through parchment covering twigs disguised as bones. It feels like he's lying on a very unforgiving slab of stone. Being not as strong as he was, an occasional turn is all his can manage without his arms giving out and that isn't enough to ease the pain away. Damn them to hell, he'd rather break his arms than suffer from bed sores.<p>

He teases open his eyes and squints at the brightness in the room. He can't see as well as he once could, but his sight is still there. He can see the room he's in; see that it's white and rather sparsely decorated, save for the knick knacks scattered about and dotting the cabinets; he can see the light filtering in through the window at the opposite end of the room. He knows exactly where it is, even laying down, because it's that damn window which let the sun in as light filters through the permanently gappy curtains in the morning and wakes him far earlier than he needs to be woken. The orderlies won't move his bed around to a different part of the room; even though he's grumbled at them many times that he needs all the beauty sleep he can get. What he can see is sometimes slightly blurred and fuzzy; even though he knows he can trust what he's seeing; his eyes are depriving him from the detail that he remembers to be there. Some days are worse than others, and this is becoming more frequent.

Thankfully though, he's managed to keep his beautiful hair, even if the colour has washed away.

There are some mementos from his old house that he clung on to a bit too forcefully, photos frames filled with friends and family; still here or passed on, some ornaments, and a stack of old paintings lined up by a wall. The door is on his left too; bed is in the middle, facing the stupid window, and a bedside table either side. There're flowers on the one to his right, probably a gift from a family member he's probably not all that close to as he can't quite remember receiving them from anyone. Everyone important to him is either too far away, just a little bit dead, or also trapped in a bed in a different part of the country.

Francis doesn't mind his situation much, he's lived a good, long life and he's satisfied with everything he's done in it. He's content to watch the last of his days slip away slowly; knowing that everyone he loves is safe and warm and cared for. What he hates though, and the only thing that gets him grumpy, is that fact that he can't move easily. One who used to be so agile and active previously understandably can't help but feel so trapped and unhappy with what's become of legs that could run and fingers that could paint. He unhappily notes, with some sort of morbid fascination, the ways in which his body seems to be shutting down at a visible pace. Arms are becoming stiffer, knees tighter, tongue heavier.

He also dislikes being dependant on others; for as long as Francis can remember he's always done things his own way when and how he wants, so having carers hoist him up, help him wash and sometimes even feed him on bad days is more frustrating than he can express. His body may be going but his mind certainly isn't and nor are his memories of being who he was, whom he still feels, _knows_, himself to be. He isn't much fond of the notion of being treated like an old, doddery invalid.

He doesn't mind his carers though, some are a little short with him for being slow at certain things when they must _know_ that it's not his fault and it's those whom he doesn't get on with. Most, however, crack jokes with him, sing songs with him, read to him, and generally allow him to act like the adult he knows himself to be. The ones he gets along with the most, happily or coincidentally for him, are women or men who are quite young, with vigour and haleness expressed through cheery grins and chirped conversations and who allow him to tease them and put up with his off-hand flirty comments about their wonderfully pert _derrières_. Well, most of them.

The other residents aren't that bad. This is a care home, not a hospice; this isn't a place to die, but a place to await for what's coming. There're four buildings, each holding a variety of patients in different stages and patients are moved about depending on their level of care. Francis still has his mind, he can still walk and talk well and therefore he's here as a 'just in case'. He can feel his body getting slower, though his mind stays sharp, actions becoming harder to force his body to do and he knows that he's better off here. He has chosen to come here because he knows it's his time, he wasn't forced and thinks that that is the most important thing. If he is to lose his free thinking will, then let the huge decision of being here be something he chose to do, one last sacrifice he chose to make.

His toe itches and he wishes to the God almighty that he had the ability to lean down and scratch it without breaking something. But he doesn't, so instead he starts humming to distract himself a little. He may be losing his eyes but his ears are still as sharp as ever.

The next thing he realises is that the door is opening and one of his carers whom he most definitely does _not _get along with comes striding in.

'Good morning, Francis, how are you feeling.' Arthur does not ask this; rather he throws the question at Francis as he comes past to open the terrible floral curtains covering the window, without waiting for an answer. Francis has heard that Arthur is actually extremely nice and considerate to all of the other residents, knocking before entering and everything, but he's yet to see even a shred of proof of this when it comes to his behaviour towards him.

'Terrible, seeing as it is you who are ungraciously invading my room this early in the morning.' Is what he wants to say, but recently he has been finding it harder to take the long, deep breaths necessary for such a long and quick fire sentence when laying down, so instead, he settles for the far more manageable; 'Terrible, now that you're here.' Alas, not the venom he wants to show, but it does its job as Arthur spins round, thick eyebrows pulled into an ugly scowl.

'Well, I see someone is feeling happy today.' Arthur's French is littered with glass cut English vowels replacing the formally lovely, soft French ones and it grates upon Francis' ears to hear such abuse of the language he loves so much. It's far too early for his day to be marred with this _heathen_.

'I would be happier if you would speak French without your crass tones slathered all about your words.' He forces out slowly, a deep breath and a slight pause halfway through. He shifts a little upwards in an attempt to see and breathe better. Arthur noticed quickly and made his way over to press the remote on the side of Francis' bed, raising the back slowly so that Francis can sit up and breathe better. 'Would you prefer I speak English?' He offers in his native language with a smirk that grew at Francis' glare. Francis loathed anything English, though he didn't really have a reason as to why. One of his favourite pastimes of yesteryears was to answer in rapid fire, perfect French, spoken quicker than he ever would normally, to any English speaker whom dared stop and ask him for help in Paris. He loved the satisfied feeling of the growing frustration of the English speakers, revelled in the knowledge that in a foreign land they were trapped in the confines their one mother tongue shackled them with. It irked him most now that he was on the receiving end; Arthur could speak both languages fluently and would often subject him to the vulgarity of English either by insulting Francis or to answer his often far too probing questions he didn't really wish to answer in the said tongue.

'Must you be so vile?' Francis held his breath as Arthur's cool hands slid under his arms to gently hoist him into a more comfortable position.

'But of course.' Arthur answered silkily, thankfully back in French. 'Having someone who isn't constantly stoking your ego can be good for you.'

'Ah mon amour, just because you don't have anyone stoking yours, doesn't mean you should deflate an old man's.'

Arthur gave a small laugh. 'Admitted you're old, finally?'

Francis gave a perfect Parisian shrug. 'I think hitting 89 does give me reason to entertain the notion of no longer being young.'

Arthur made a non-committal sound but didn't offer a response, choosing instead to check his clipboard he'd previously discarded on Francis' dresser top when he went to open the curtains. 'Did you sleep well?'

'As well as can be.'

'Not much then?'

'Not really.' Francis watched as Arthur made a little note on his paper. Arthur was one carer Francis made no point in give out white lies to, there was no unpleasant truth buttering when it came to him. Although Arthur wasn't someone Francis would go out of his way to talk to, Arthur was one of the only ones whom answered him with as much bite as Francis himself gave with his words. One of the only ones, aside from the other residents, who didn't molly coddle him like a child and he appreciated it.

'I'll ask Julia if it's worth trying you with some sleeping pills, a different type though; this is becoming more and more common lately.'

Francis's face gave a nervous twitch and he gave a scoff to cover it before he remarked drily, 'You think I haven't noticed?' Ignoring Arthur's exasperated sigh through his nose, Francis sat up a bit higher and stretched his arms in front of him. Breathing was a lot easier now that his own weight wasn't squashing the air from his lungs. 'When are you actually going to do your job and get me up and ready for breakfast; I'm hungry.'

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><p>The nursing home was located in the province of Aunis on the West of France, in the town of Fouras. It was near the coast and not too far from farms and stretches of light green fields on the other side, with plenty of fresh air and quiet. It was sparsely decorated inside; light crème walls and pale blue carpets, a dusting of paintings scattered about the walls with the odd ornament dotted about here and there on small corner tables. Medical equipment was stored in specially adapted rooms; though whether this was to conceal them from visitors or to shield the patients was debatable.<p>

It was quite open plan, large archways instead of spindly doors and open common areas rather than twisty narrow corridors. All buildings and rooms were on just a ground floor with a flat, large parcel of land serving as the grounds next to a small suburban neighbourhood. This allowed the residents, who could, to wander about the grounds and even outside the estate for day trips with family or by themselves if they wished to and were deemed medically capable. Residents that couldn't walk as well but wanted to were often taken out for walks with a carer. There were often trips planned too, like outings to the countryside for a picnic, or to the seaside, or sometimes even just out for a drive about the streets. The aim was to not allow residents to become disconnected from the world, to do as much as they could whilst they were still able to. There was a schedule for dinners, washing, medicine, and sleeping, but for the most part the people who lived there were allowed to spend their time pretty much how they wanted.

Francis was one of the residents whom still had quite a bit of freedom left. Although he couldn't get up on his own, (or get down again well, for that matter) and was a lot slower than he used to be, once he was up he was extremely mobile and was beginning to create a name for himself in the art of running off. Resenting the rule of having to always have someone know where he was, he was prone to just wandering off to go on a walk to visit a friend in another room which caused frantic staff to dash about desperately looking for him once they'd realised he'd yet again slipped away from one of them.

This particular morning, Francis had taken it upon himself to walk down to visit a bench in one of his favourite spots on the outer reaches of the grounds, down a small public footpath and sheltered by a small glade of wood that opened into a forest. It was a bright and sunny day, the kind of weather that makes you want to sit about and laze in the sun, so he had hoped that he wouldn't be missed for a while.

'You absolute arse!'

Ah, never mind. 'Salut Arthur, what brings you this way?'

Arthur said some things under his breath, which were probably not very nice and directed towards him, in English. 'What on earth are you doing out here?' He'd stomped to stand in front of Francis now and was panting lightly, a sign that he'd jogged the last few feet after spotting him.

Francis looked up to meet his eyes, squinting against the sun. 'A mere walk, mon cher, am I not even allowed that now?' He offered towards the angry, Arthur shaped silhouette. Arthur looked like he was swallowing back some choice words, judging by the pinched, hard line his lips were forced into before speaking again.

'You are _allowed, _Francis, but you know you _have _to let someone know where you're going. If something happened to you there's no way we'd know to help you, especially this far out.'

'You, of all people, unfortunately found me.'

'Francis, you kno-'

'Yes, yes.' Francis waved away Arthur's lecture with one hand and patted the seat beside him with the other. 'Come, sit down a bit. You're here, you've found me, and I'm safe, so now you may as well sit down before you give yourself heart palpitations.'

Arthur gave him a hard stare, as if judging whether it was worth continuing scolding someone who obviously wasn't going to pay any heed to his or anyone else's advice on the matter. After a few seconds he conceded and flopped down next to the older man, leaning heavily against the bench and allowing Francis to see him better. He had his eyes shut and looked flushed, though from the heat or the run in the heat Francis couldn't be sure, but at least he didn't look as if he was going to start telling him off anytime soon.

'I'm not stupid rosbif, I never leave the grounds and I never go anywhere unless I am sure I am up for it. I am not unaware of the dangers and nor have I lost all shreds of my common sense.' He spoke in a flat, almost despondent voice, like he'd given this explanation for his actions many a time before to many a different carer.

Arthur pitied all of them. He'd not even worked here for that long and he was coming close to the end of his tether half the time. He gave a small sigh but then quickly snapped open his eyes, though didn't look at Francis. He gave an intense look into a bush off to the left of where they sat as though he'd heard something and stared for a while before sliding his eyes ahead. 'That's fine, but for our own piece of mind, just please let us know something. At the very least, the direction you're going in and how long you're expecting to be. That's a fair compromise, isn't it?' Arthur turned to look at him and fixed him with a tired gaze.

'I know you enjoy your independence,' he started delicately, 'but at this rate you're not going to be allowed out without someone firmly attached to your side and I know you'll consider that to be a lot worse.'

'I'm not yet used to all this.' Francis waved his hand absently in the direction of the home behind them. 'Three years, and I still miss being able to just go and do whatever whenever. You'd think by now-' He gave a hollow laugh. 'You don't understand how grating this is. To be watched and tracked all day every day; how _frustrating _it is. I hope you never do.'

He turned back to his companion and was slightly surprised; he looked as though he was smothering down an expression of some sort that Francis couldn't put a name to, his eyes seemed sad and the lips drawn together harshly, but whatever it was, was replaced by Arthur's usual apathetic, unruffled stare so quickly that Francis was sure he imagined that there was anything else ever there at all.

'Well, I dare say I've got a few years left. Come on, that's surely enough rough rambling to satisfy you for a while, we've got to head back for lunch.' He stood in one easy swift movement, noticing Francis' look of undisguised disgust at his ease and then helped Francis to his feet, allowing him get going and walk ahead of him slightly back up the path that would wind them on towards the home. He waited a bit to make sure that Francis was out of earshot and then stood still and gave one last quick look back behind them, listening for something carefully. After a moment's pause and seemingly deducing that there was nothing there, he quickly walked to catch up with his charge.

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><p>Dinner time was Francis' favourite time of the day, however less so for any staff member given responsibility for that day's meal. Residents of his building were encouraged to continue to cook lunches or small snacks for themselves with help during the day if they wanted something different from that which was offered, but dinners were all eaten as a single dish that the home shared to ease the trouble of making multiple different meals that suited the medical requirements of all. Francis wasn't too fond of not cooking or even helping, so liked to pop in and watch quietly.<p>

Watching quietly often turned into 'helpfully assisting'.

'You need to turn them over now. That's it, see they're almost perfect! Now add the seasoning. No no, not that one; can't you see that now they're sticking to the pan?'

The person whom he was addressing was a portly, middle aged woman called Louisa with ruddy cheeks caused by a short temper and wispy brown hair bundled up into a hairnet. There were two head chefs employed at the care home and they shared the responsibly of meal planning and cooking throughout the week so as to add variety and to share the burden of planning medical needs, as well as taste. Louisa was not someone whom Francis got along with very well.

'Mr Bonnefoy.' She responded curtly, spinning around face him and pointed a spatula threateningly at his face. 'If you do not leave this area _immediately _I will be forced to call the head nurse and have you forevermore banned from this kitchen.'

Francis tired to interrupt but she cut him off. 'No excuses! I don't care what you do when Belle is here and I don't care if she allows this nonsense but I will not. I can cook, I am aware of how to cook well, and I do _not _need you poking your nose in and telling me how to do my job.'

'Now,' she put down the spatula and took the meat off the heat. 'This is not a five star restaurant and you are no longer the head chef of one. If the food is not done to your exact standards then please by all means complain as I will happily not be listening.' She waved one of the assistant cooks over who was chatting to a nurse in the corridor. 'Please get Amélie to take Mr Bonnefoy to the living room, I've got a meal to attempt to cook and it'll go a lot better without any interference.' With one last shrewd look she shooed him away from the countertop with her hand and towards the door.

The nurse in question was a rather timid looking girl whom Francis hadn't seen before; upon approaching his side she took his arm, patting it in a way he assumed she meant to be a friendly manner. 'Come on Mr Bonnefoy, let's get you to the living room, yes? I'm sure you'd much rather enjoy yourself in there where you can watch television or talk with the others.'

Although annoyed by the way the lady was talking to him, as if he had the brains of a small, stupid child, Francis nevertheless hooked her arm in his and lead her towards the door. 'I'd much rather get to know you, ma cherie. After all, we've not had any new staff in a while and I'm sure I would have noticed someone as beautiful as you breezing through these halls if you'd worked here for long.'

She allowed a small smile and a quiet giggle. 'I've been warned about you, sir.'

'Francis, please.' He offered, leading her now out of the kitchen area, past other residents lumbering along in their own pace to gather and watch T.V before eating. 'When did you start?'

'Oh, not too long ago. This is my first full day though I've been doing odd shifts here and there to get used to things. I'm Amélie; it's lovely to meet you.'

Francis grinned at her easily. 'Likewise. Now, where do you come from? Tell me all about yourself.'

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><p>'Right, first we have to get him changed, so you'll need to get his nightclothes out of a bed for him.'<p>

Arthur was putting Francis to bed tonight, and it seemed poor Amélie was being subjected to his _gentle _tutorage.

'Er- w- where are they?'

'Open the wardrobe, normally all of the residents' are kept on the second drawer down on the right hand side.'

With a quick nod she scurried across the room, leaving her corner to retrieve the clothes where it looked like she'd tried to take refuge from the blunt instructions Arthur was giving as he prepared Francis' bed.

'All carers have two key residents and another two whom they share with another carer, so there's a ratio of 2 carers to four patients, I'm sure you'll no doubt be assigned yours soon. You'll be the first point of call for your two key patients should you be needed and second for the other two; you will compare notes and concerns with your partner carer about all patients in your care and it's your job to make sure all four residents between you are happy.'

'I'm not happy.' Francis offered helpfully from his spot on the chair.

'Shut up.' Amélie looked shocked at the exchange but Arthur continued as if there wasn't an interruption. 'Now, obviously you don't stay with these residents all day and you're expected to interact and talk to all residents in your building, but it's your two residents you manage medicine for alone, help into and out of bed, help them wash if it's needed, make sure they eat, and generally help them with whatever they need.' Arthur finished and stood with his arms crossed.

'Any patient that needs lifting or medical injections requires the presence of your partner carer, so you'll have to work out a rota between you both as to when you're both available to help patients that need more care together. Some days, however, you'll just have to use whoever is free, so please don't attempt anything that you're unsure of on your own. Any problems and you talk to the head carer, Julia. Do you understand everything?'

Amélie clutched the bedclothes with something which looked akin to fear on her face, eyes wide and unsureness rolling off her in waves. 'Yes, I think so.'

Arthur gave a sharp nod and moved towards Francis. 'Okay then, would you like to get Francis ready? He's quite easy as he doesn't need lifting but I'll be here if you need anything.'

'Are you finished talking to me as though I'm not in the room?'

Arthur hmm'd and had the gall to appear to consider it. 'Probably for now, but you never know.'

Amélie made her way over and started to undress him. Francis smiled and opened his mouth but Arthur, the demon, coughed. 'Don't even think about making any sort of comment, you, I know that face.'

Francis sneered at him. 'You're just jealous that I don't treat you kindly anymore.'

Arthur laughed. 'You wish, frog.'

'You know, you're insulting an entire building by saying that, do you forget which country you're in, rosbif?'

Arthur sniffed. 'Hardly, god damn awful food plus there's you here as well. I can't be anywhere else can I?'

'You could always piss off and scurry back to your shitty island, you know; I'm sure no one asked you to be here.'

Arthur looked shocked, and belatedly Francis realised that was far too harsh and personal. The impending awkward silence was broken swiftly by Amélie, who straightened up and clapped her hands. 'All finished. Now Francis, let's get you into bed.'

As Amélie guided and settled him down, Arthur walked across to the sink on the left hand side of the room, near the wardrobe, and filled up a glass of cold water. Walking back again, he set it down on a bedside table and reached inside his pocket on his pale blue, uniform shirt and pulled out a packet of pills. 'I told Julia what you mentioned this morning about sleeping and she thought we could try you out on these ones for a spell. If they work and you get a better night's rest without any...problems, we'll start reducing them and hopefully sort out the issue. You may not be sleeping because it's become a pattern, so hopefully this'll break it.'

'And if it doesn't?'

Arthur popped a pill out and handed Francis it and the glass. 'Then we'll have to get a doctor in and see if there's another drug you've not recently tried, or anything non-medicinal that can be done first. We'll work on things from there.'

Francis took the pro-offered pill and stared at it warily before swallowed it with the aid of the water. He shuddered, 'I swear they get larger the more infirm you get.'

Amélie patted his hand soothingly. 'It's perfectly normal to not like change Francis.'

Francis raised an eyebrow and shared a look with Arthur, who looked as though he also disapproved of this condescending behaviour. 'Yes, well. I've got my other resident to settle in and Mrs Dubois takes a little while longer.' He glanced over at Amélie who was still standing by the bedside and gave her a small smile. 'Well done at settling him in, is this your first nightshift as well?'

She nodded. 'Thank you for showing me the ropes.'

Arthur looked distinctly uncomfortable. 'Er, of course, no problem. It's just my job to. Luckily the patients in this building aren't a high risk so you won't need to check on them much, but a quick one is usually done at three am which you need to make a note of.' He gave her a warm smile and then looked down at Francis, face blank once more. 'I'll leave Amélie to lower you down when you're ready, Mr Bonnefoy; do you need anything else tonight?'

Startled by the formal address, Francis answered, 'Nothing at all, but may I talk to you alone for a bit?' He glanced over at Amélie, 'I'll only be a little while, and then you can finish up.' He winked at her when she nodded, causing her to giggle at him as she left the room.

'Is anything the matter?'

His eyes slid from the door to meet Arthur's green gaze. 'I just... wanted to apologise for what I said earlier. It was uncalled for.'

Whatever Arthur was expecting, it certainly wasn't that. 'What?' He looked terribly confused. 'No, I'm sorry Mr. Bonnefoy, I've been speaking to you far too informally; that's certainly not the way to treat a person I haven't known all that long, especially one in my care and I can promise that it won't happen again. I hadn't realised I'd let myself slip that much.'

'Please,' Francis looked at him deploringly, 'you're one of the only ones here who doesn't talk to me like I'm fast becoming a brain dead vegetable. I know I'm not all that quick and neither my beauty nor health are not all what they were, but that's no reason to talk to me like a child.'

If Arthur had looked uncomfortable before, it was nothing to what he looked like now. He averted his eyes and coughed awkwardly. 'If that's-' he was cut off by Francis chuckling. 'Wha- what now?'

'Do you know, I don't I've ever had the pleasure of meeting someone as socially awkward as yourself.'

Arthur turned red. 'You arse!' Poking him on the side of the head, he answered, 'I may be socially awkward, but at least I'm not going bald.'

This elicited a gasp of horror. 'How dare you! Of all the things to say to me! And I am not going bald you bushy browed swine! I'd like to see you even try to look this good at my age!'

Arthur just smirked at him and turned to the door. 'See you tomorrow, old man.'

He opened the door and Amélie looked in. 'You can come in now.' He said, though not unkindly. He was about to leave, but stopped suddenly and checked his clipboard frowning. 'Actually, if you don't mind I'll stay for a bit; probably wise to see if the new pills actually take effect like they should.'

She nodded and moved into the room. 'Sure.'

He inclined his head towards her to speak to her softly. 'Do you mind just talking to him while you get him down; sleeping pills have never been his good point.'

Francis was starting to look a little wary at this point, but visibly brightened when she came closer. Picking up the remote, she lowered him gently downwards and helped him adjust. 'You have a lot of interesting knick-knacks here, Francis.'

He scoffed at her. 'Nothing much, I can assure you. You should have seen my old house; it was _teeming _with the most beautiful things, as well as my old paintings of course.'

'You used to paint? I thought you were a chef?'

Francis gave a soft smile. 'Ah, I was ma cherie. I painted in my spare time.' He paused for breath, feeling the effects of laying down settle on his lungs. 'My wife had a little art shop and I use to sell some things in there, but mostly it was just a hobby.'

'Your wife?' she started.

'She died 13 years ago.'

'Oh, I'm so sorry.'

'Please, don't be. Marie was a wonderful woman who died peacefully surrounded by family; we both could not ask for anything better.'

She gave him a sad smile and looked about the room. 'Is that what you used to keep your art supplies in then?' She looked over at a battered briefcase, sitting forlorn and hidden in the right hand corner, underneath the T.V and by the bookshelf. It was a greyish brown and must have been quiet clean once, but age had battered the light leather covering and had softened the edges. There were a few splodges on the outer casing and a grimy old lock gleamed from the top.

Arthur glanced up.

Francis gave her a cheeky grin. 'I'll tell you something, ma petite. I don't actually know what's in that case.'

'You don't?' She asked, confused.

'No, not at all.' He took a deep breath as he tried to fight off the drowsiness that he could feel start to creep up on him. 'I moved out of my parents' house when I was 23 and settled into a small place by the coast, in a small town near here.' Deep breath in. 'The house was quiet old but perfect. I met my wife and we had decided that she should move in with me so we could start up a life together.'

He was starting to blink more intensely now, fighting off the effects of the narcotic. 'I had to clean out a few things to make room, but wished to keep some so I went into the loft to store them. It was so cluttered that I ended up rearranging that about too.' The sentences were becoming very drawn out now, slow and heavy with sleep. 'I found it up there, tucked away under some boxes. It looked interesting so I tried to open it, of course, but couldn't. Firmly shut. Haven't been able to open it.'

He had finally closed his eyes and his breathing was starting to even out, but Amélie nudged him awake again. 'Why didn't you throw it away? Why keep it with you? What's so important about it?'

'Amélie...' Arthur spoke up quietly from the side. 'Let him sleep...'

'Why?' She ignored him and questioned Francis again, more vehemently this time, trying in a manner which could be labelled as desperate in order to make him finish.

'I don't know.' Francis mumbled drowsily, eyes still shut. 'It had a pull on me; no matter... what I did I couldn't... throw...'

She made a move, as if to nudge him again but Arthur stepped forward and caught her hand in his own. 'What are you doing?' he whispered angrily in her ear. 'I said talk to him to keep him occupied, not interrogate the poor man!'

She stood, pulled her hand back, but wouldn't look at him. 'I was interested... it's not hurting anyone for him to answer and I was just curious.'

Her eyes darted back over to the case in the corner and she rapidly looked away again, looking conflicted. 'It's strange, don't you think? There must be something important to him in there.'

With that, she walked quickly out.

* * *

><p>Francis didn't have very pleasant dreams that night.<p>

He dreamt he was in a large room which was empty apart from himself and one other person. The dream was darkened, but he knew there to be large, brilliant windows which lined the room and beautiful statues and old damask chairs beside windowsills, with painting in ornate gilded frames hung from the walls. In the dream it was dark, so oh so dark, and so very cold.

The person he was with spoke something, but the sounds were muted and didn't register. He responded in the same manner, laughing.

The man held out a thing he'd been carrying, but it blended in with the swirling colours of his suit and didn't register as anything recognisable. Just a lumpy shape. He passed it to Francis and he held its heavy weight carefully.

Although he knew it to be heavy, it had no texture nor did he have any sensations of holding it.

There was another, slow this time, flurry of sound from the other man; the conversation tone had changed.

He responded in kind, but with a touch of confusion.

Anger, sudden thick, intense anger. That's all he could sense, that's all that mattered. Something had gone wrong, so very very wrong, and he tried to think quickly, tried to bring the conversation back to what it was like in the beginning but through the swirling of noise and colours Francis had no idea of what was going on, nor what he was supposed to do. A loud voice, a shiny thing, him throwing the lumpy thing away and then a sudden bang.

He awoke screaming, a pain like a fire burning in his chest and spreading rapidly across to the other side, smothering him in an inescapable pain. His lungs were constricting and he was finding it so hard to breathe, his shirt collar felt like it was choking him; it took everything he had to reach out and press the emergency button, blindly and widely groping about in the dark until his fingers hit the buzzer.

He didn't hear the door to his room bursting open, nor did he know how many people were in the room, but he could feel cool hands prying away the one hand he had clenched in his night shirt and then opening his top shirt buttons, as well as a calm voice talking to him, telling him to breathe deeply and just calm down, he was going to be fine.

The hand that was extracted from his chest waved widely for a bit and then gripped onto the nearest solid mass, which happened to be an arm, tightly whilst the other reached up towards his face. He registered that he was crying, tears were sliding unabated down his cheeks and settling in the hollows and ridges of his neck and clumsily tried to wipe them away.

After a few seconds the pain had receded slightly; he could hear better and became aware that what sounded like wheezy and drawn out sobs were actually coming from him. The rest of the room was silent, save from what he now realised was just his crying and the voice of Arthur talking to him.

'You're alright Francis, take a deep breath in and then out again. Come on.'

Francis tried to do as he was told but he ended up producing a deep but quick breath in and a choked sob out.

'That's it, well done. Try again. Can you open your eyes?'

He forced them open but shut them again quickly as the tears around his eyes made him blink rapidly. He felt a tissue being pressed into his hands and he gratefully wiped his face, breathing slowly evening out as each second passed and the burning pain in his chest dissipated. He finally opened his eyes fully, and saw Arthur, face as blank as usual, bent across the right side of his bed and leaning over him, right arm being clenched in Francis' own vice like grip and the left holding a box of tissues. He gently placed them down on Francis' leg and said, 'I'm going to check the pulse on your neck now, okay?'

Still unable to speak, he simply nodded in a single jerky movement and then flinched back slightly at the sensation of cool fingers on far too clammy skin. He absentmindedly wondered if having such cold hands all of the time was healthy. As Arthur was taking his pulse, Francis noticed other carers that were on the nightshift awkwardly crowded around the room and looking very unsure of themselves. Arthur looked over at one and gave her Francis' heart rate before looking back at him. 'I'm going to raise you up so that you can breathe better, alright? Squeeze harder on my arm if I'm going too fast.'

He pressed the button and the small churning noises of the electric mechanics underneath him gave Francis brief warning before he was raised slowly upwards so that now he was sitting at a gentle incline. He took at deep breath, easier now due to lack of constricting pressure and a loose collar and opened his eyes properly. Asides from Arthur and himself, there were four other carers in the room, including Amelie. All were standing about the bed and room but had formed a wide berth around Arthur.

'Are you feeling okay now?' Arthur drew his attention back again, and to the hand he still had clamped to Arthur's forearm which he promptly, upon realising what he was doing, released.

'Yes.' He was ashamed at the pitiful croak he produced.

An uncomfortable silence descended upon the room.

'We'll leave you alone for a bit with Arthur, okay Mr Bonnefoy? Come on everyone.' Another male carer, by the name of Jean, started to shepherd everyone else towards the door and before long the room was empty and peacefully quiet again, broken only by the occasional hiccoughing breath from Francis.

They sat in silence for a few minutes, listening to the footsteps of the other retreating down the corridor before Arthur broke it. 'Did your chest hurt again this time?'

Francis nodded but offered nothing else; the silence returned.

'It was clearer this time.'

Arthur started a bit; he was just starting to relax, but recovered face quickly. 'Oh?'

Francis nodded but wouldn't look at him. 'There was definitely another man with me, he passed me something but then he suddenly got angry at something I said, though I couldn't hear anything that was going on. Then he shot me.'

'He shot you? Are you sure?'

'I could see a flash of what must have been metal and then a bang. It also felt like I'd been shot.'

Arthur worried his lip. 'You can't know what being shot fee-'

'I know what it felt like!' Francis protested vehemently, 'I know...I've just always...' He broke off and clutched at his chest again looking pained. 'I can't explain it but I know what being shot feels like and I _know_ that's what happened. I want to say it's the same as other times, but like you helpfully pointed out, I've not been shot before.'

Arthur said nothing and continued observing him. Francis turned to look at him with scared eyes. 'Why do I always dream the same thing as soon as I take any form of narcotic? That's not _normal, _it's never been normal!'

'Calm down.' Arthur snapped, unnerved by the sudden out of character behaviour from his patient. 'Just calm down for a second, you're over thinking things.'

Francis shook his head despondently, silver hair falling loose from his hair band. 'Listen,' Arthur began, leaning forward again, 'when we're asleep, our brain sorts through what we've been through in dreams to help understand things, but it doesn't necessarily use memories to do this. Maybe when you take sleeping pills your brain just gets a bit more creative as it experiences a reaction to the drugs; maybe that's just the way your brain deals with chemicals in your body, I don't know. But don't work yourself into a panic for no reason.'

Francis sighed heavily. 'But why the same dream? Why is it getting clearer the older I get?'

Arthur leant back against his chair, crossing one leg over the other and he shrugged. 'Maybe the more you take them the more your brain reacts to them, or maybe your brain has associated drugs with that dream and the fear that goes with it, so it's created a pattern. It's okay to be scared of a dream, Francis, none of this is abnormal.'

Francis didn't answer so they settled back into the silence again. After a time, Arthur straightened his crumpled uniform shirt and got up to continue his shift. He left Francis, in accordance to his wishes, with his bed still at the slight incline to help him breathe and the lamp left on to bask the room in a dim orange glow, as well as the promise to return to check on him in a few hours.

Francis hated this; he'd had this problem since he was a young adult when he'd acquired the need for sleeping pills for the first time. The fear, the loud bag, and the large lumpy thing he received; they were all the same details. But the older he'd got, the more details he dreamt with, the more the fear grew as the more real the dream became. Recent times however, the dream were becoming very clear, and because he had been having the same one his whole lifetime it now felt more akin to a dream of a memory rather than a dream itself.

He shook himself and willed his body to relax and forced his muscles to stop tensing. Arthur was right, not that he'd ever tell him. He was over thinking this too much, the fear was _from _the dream, not _for _it. He'd experienced this before; he knew it would go away soon. Taking a deep breath in, he open his eyes to gaze around the room, lazily looking at everything cast in the warm, cosy light. Slowly, he slipped asleep again.

* * *

><p>He came to at the sounds of a door clicking shut; probably Arthur, leaving again after his promised check up. The light in the room was now turned off, but the moonlight from the chink in the curtains allowed him to make sense of his surroundings in the dark. He shut his eyes and turned onto his right side to go back to sleep again when sudden icy cold panic rapidly pooled into his stomach and he snapped his eyes open again. The <em>briefcase; <em>he'd dreamt about the briefcase! The outline was the same, the faded colour was the same; his tired eyes and the lack of light made him see the damn thing nestled in the corner in a whole new, horribly familiar way. That wasn't made him panic though, what made him freeze in sudden, irational terror, stiff under the covers, was the fact that it had moved slightly forwards, now jutting out at an angle from the corner, and a few books that were nestled on top had been moved onto the floor.

Someone, most definitely from the home and whilst he lay sleeping, had tried to break into or steal his stupid tatty briefcase.

Footsteps faded down the corridor outside and he started shaking.

* * *

><p><span><strong>AN:<strong>

**Hello! I hope this first chapter wasn't too boring; it's just there to really set the scene for everything to come. It's going to mainly focus on France and England, though a few other countries may pop up later on. Also, don't worry about OCs, they're just there to help me tell the tale. :) I haven't written much properly for a while, so I hope that my style and characterisations are okay and not too OOC or bland and boring. I also hope that the plot makes sense and is interesting to read!**

**Please let me know what you thought of this, and please leave me any criticism you have about it as I really do want to improve and get back into the swing of writing again.**

**Hope to hear from you soon, please PM me or message me on my tumblr; rainbow fruit pastilles. Tumblr. Com if you want to chat or know anything more.**

**Thanks for reading; I hope you enjoyed reading as much as I did writing! Until next time,**

**~AHWH~**


	2. Fear Makes You Numb

**Fear Makes you Numb**

Francis moved into the home voluntarily three years ago, aged 86. Having no children and being an only child himself, he knew that he'd have little options in regards to his welfare should his health become worse. Although his neighbours he spoke to were friendly and willing to help him, and as much as he loved his house and town, the stairs were becoming difficult to manage and household jobs were starting to fall to the wayside. After his wife had died suddenly and peacefully ten years previous, when he was 76, the concept of his own mortality started to become more stark and important than ever. He wanted to remain independent for as long as possible, but he promised himself that, once the time came, he would make the planned decision to go into a nursing home; the decision being his and his alone of healthy mind. He hoped that because it would be his own decision he'd tolerate and accept the help as well as his increasing dependency on others. What scared him most was the thought of dying alone at home, where no one would find him. He consoled himself that at least he'd first walk away from independence and into a home, rather than be wheeled into a hospice.

He had a cleaner at first eight years ago, a little help around the house here and there who was also happy to help him with shopping, and then, three years after, a part time home carer three times a week who'd make sure his pills were topped up, that he was healthy and that he was eating okay. He was also fond of going to the local community centre which put on events and classes for older people which gave him a chance to paint sculpt and bake where at home it was either too messy, dangerous or both to do alone.

Although he knew what the logical and safest thing was for him to do would be, the first time three years ago that he failed to walk up the stairs in one go scared him more than anything else he could remember. His wife Marie didn't have time to really grow old and weak, or feel ill or tired more often than normal. She just said she'd take a small nap before dinner, kissed him on the cheek and fell into a wakeless, comfortable sleep. He didn't have time to fear for her, or worry about her. It was the slow decline he himself feared, the drip drop of vitality and mobility slipping away unnoticed, the suspense of waiting for the day to come.

After fifteen minutes and almost three quarters of the way up the stairs, his chest was so tight that he couldn't get enough air in his lungs to take another step. He slid down the step and, in the middle of the stairway, he cried.

It took ten more minutes and a vice-like grip on the banister before he got the top; heart beat fast out of combined effort and fear. After a week of thorough searching through books and the internet, and recommendations from his nurse, he paid a visit to his doctor who gave him the consent he'd been dreading. Although he was still healthy for now, his lungs were straining under the pressure of anything too strenuous and his heart was becoming weak. It was cheaper and better for Francis mentally to go into a home for older people willingly, rather than pay for a stair lift or buy a new house and extend the inevitable.

* * *

><p>It took a while to settle and get used to things, but all in all he didn't mind the home. They allowed him to take more things from his house than he'd expected and seemed like a pleasant and relaxing place. Broken into four 'stages', ranging from the healthy and able to the terminal house that Francis refused to look at, it covered all types of aged caring. He'd chosen it specifically because of the location, but also because it would cover him fully as he aged into either a slow decline or a quick jump from stage one to four. Moving into to one home bad enough, Francis didn't know how he'd cope if someone deemed him too high a risk to care for and needed to be shuttled off to a hospice; him being too far gone to say anything against it. Here he knew he'd be until he died. As it was a place he'd chosen, it was easier to deal with. Even though he'd be dying, he'd made the decision where to die. The last independent choice he'd make.<p>

The staff were, for the most part, friendly. And then there was Arthur.

Francis knew, from the moment he introduced himself to him, that Arthur already had an opinion about Francis and it probably wasn't a pleasant one. He had no idea how he came to have this or what he'd heard, but at first he seemed to avoid interacting with Francis at all costs or regarded him with a cool, yet polite, indifference, so he could suppose that it was nothing good. He had a nice face and was well built body wise and thus Francis assumed he would respond well to some charm and teasing. Although he didn't manage to butter Arthur up, he did manage to extract genuine reactions that Francis hadn't had the pleasure of seeing for a while. Arthur was _fun_. Far removed from his polite manners and charming smile which he showed his patients and colleagues, Arthur would eventually snap back or scowl at him, or insult him back. Arthur would look flustered when caught unawares or go red around the ears when trying to resist throttling Francis when others were about. He'd turn into a bad winner or a sore loser when challenged to games of chess because he was so competitive that he'd never manage to say no, especially when taunted. Arthur was a real person in this god forsaken happy home for the elderly and Francis didn't know what he would have done if Arthur hadn't started just over a year ago. Didn't mean that he actually _liked _him though.

As communicating with Arthur politely wasn't on of is preferred pastimes, he therefore didn't know why he, an Englishman, was working as a care home nurse near the middle of France. Or, why a man as young as he was, had decided to go into this profession in the first place. As a private home it wasn't cheap and Francis could only assume that the pay was reasonable for the higher than average care that they received; although there never seemed to be enough staff there were far more than for a state owned one. Francis didn't know whether Arthur had any family or whether he was close with them. He had no idea of his social life or where he lived when not working or even what his hobbies were. The other orderlies, especially a rather flamboyant man Jacques, seemed to love to talk about themselves and their lives; maybe to make them more relatable to patients and help them to fit in. Francis himself learnt more about random strangers in his first month than he ever knew about some of his neighbours after living next to them for decades. Arthur, however, never divulged anything, and if asked he'd try to find a way to worm his way out of the question or he'd offhandedly mention a vague fact about this family member there or that friend here. So, Francis had never asked about his reasons for being here and Arthur neither offered an explanation nor asked anything about him in return. He rather liked it that way.

* * *

><p>A stocky middle aged nurse disturbed Francis in the morning. Known as Annette, she was a thirty something year old divorcee who had been doing her job for far too long and was Arthur's partner orderly who, impossibly, was more than a grump than he was. They got on well.<p>

'Good morning, Mr Bonnefoy, I trust you slept decently.' She strode in and flung open the curtains to reveal a grey and dreary day. 'I guess you won't be wandering about outside today, the report mentions rain and I'll not have you getting ill on my watch. Now,' she turned on her heel and fixed him with a hard stare, 'I heard we had a little nightmare last night. Anything more afterwards? Did you get back to sleep?'

Francis said nothing, but shook his head, effectively answering both. All of the orderlies knew about his issue with sleeping drugs, but they seemed to like trying him on new ones every once and a while. His sleeping had been getting worse as he aged.

'We, I'll have to let Julia know, this isn't good, Mr Bonnefoy.' Part of his mind twisted with the urge to inform her that it was hardly his fault drugs induced hallucinatory nightmares, but he jaw felt stiff and he still didn't feel in control of his breathing enough to answer her without croaking or wheezing.

Arthur had left him with the slight incline in his bed, so his breathing was so far normal and easier, yet he hoped fervently that Annette would help him out of bed soon; he needed to get out of his room. The briefcase was still where it had been left; in the corner of the room and now jutting out slightly. His books were also left where they were dumped on the floor.

Francis hadn't managed to go back to sleep again last night. Fear and paranoia had drained any traces of the narcotic from his system and kept him alert and tense under his covers; eyes fixed on the door and window of the room. Since he'd been woken he'd not heard anyone try to attempt to come in his bedroom, but he tensed every time soft footsteps fell outside his door, then relaxed again when they didn't stop. After the initial panic, his mind had raced trying to think up anything which could explain the situation and what on earth it could possibly mean. What reason would anyone have to try and break into or steal his old briefcase, which was probably empty? Though, he thought to himself drily, there must be something in there if it was worth someone trying to see inside.

After a while, he logically concluded that perhaps someone was curious and wanted to see for themselves what was in there, either doubting his word that he himself wasn't aware of the contents or simple curiosity on their part. However, if they were innocently curious, why not ask him if they could attempt to open it, rather than conduct their efforts suspiciously in the dead of night? Therefore it was either this, or someone mistook his case for their own which could have been lost or missing and wanted to check. Or, lastly and least probable, someone knew what was inside and wanted whatever was there; although, considering how long it had been in Francis' possession and how long it had been sat safe with him in the home, he doubted it. How many people could have been responsible? He had ruled out the possibility of it being the action of anyone not connected in some way to the home, but why would anyone have an interest in an old case, the contents of which were unknown even to him? Without the amount of staff available, each member was only required to do one night shift per week, further confusing Francis' option of people who could have possible tried to tamper with his case. There was no schedule for him to go by; staff could pick and choose any day they wished to. The only person he could think to be responsible in any way was Amélie who had only just been told about the case. Yet, as it was her first shift, she wouldn't have been left alone, especially if Arthur was lurking about with her.

It terrified him slightly to think, but someone physically close to him had broken in to his room, and walked past him sleeping. What comforted, however, him was that if they wanted to, they could have targeted him or hurt him that night but hadn't, meaning that he was probably safe for now and it was probably more of an act of suspicious curiosity. It was also possible that he imagined the whole thing; the suitcase was shrouded in a dark corner of the room and after his nightmare, it was easy to conclude that he'd jumped to the case and connected the fear from his dream and it hadn't moved at all. Yet, as the sun rose and Francis stayed awake, it became more apparent that it had indeed shifted forwards slightly and the books were shifted from the top of the case into a scattered pile besides it.

Annette gave him a hard stare. 'Are you feeling alright, Mr Bonnefoy?'

Francs cleared his throat. 'Yes, I'm just still a little tired, that's all.'

She stood akimbo and raised an eyebrow. 'I'm sure, Mr Bonnefoy. Time to get you up and dressed then.' She checked his temperature and pulse, and once satisfied, helped him to get up, dressed and ready for breakfast.

* * *

><p>The rest of the day passed uneventfully. The staff from last night seemed to have informed those in the morning which meant, of course, that now everyone knew. Mrs Dubois, upon meeting him in the living area in the morning huffed and haughtily informed him that he'd woken her last night. 'It's happening more often more these days Francis, you really ought to be used to all of this by now. I don't see why you have to keep fussing.'<p>

Francis gave a cruel smile. 'Believe me Madame, it is hardly my intention to rouse you each and every time, yet whilst we're on the subject, I'd like to helpfully inform you that your snoring is also increasing in volume. For one who likes undisturbed sleep, you seem to be quite the master at disturbing others.'

After Mrs Dubois had turned an interesting shade of puce and stormed (or, Francis happily noted, waddled) off in indignation, Francis had been forcefully guided away by Annette and under her watchful eye, made to eat some breakfast which he didn't really want whilst she scolded him on expected resident behaviour. The rest of the day was spent wandering about inside either watching television or reading when not pondering about what happened last night. The other residents continued on with life as usual.

He needed to talk to someone. He needed to go over everything his mind had been buzzing over and he needed to have someone tell him harshly that he was being a stupid idiot and that there was an obvious explanation for everything. Unfortunately for him, the only person he knew of whom was still willing to provide him those services was Arthur, who, due to the nightshift last night, wouldn't be back in until tomorrow morning. Asides from him, there was always the possibility of confiding in the other residents.

Even though he was good friends with many he wouldn't call them ideal in matters of discussing a personal issue. At the most were, like him, sat in the clinically clean and comfortable chairs which were dotted around the room; either in clumps by tables of bookcases or congregated about the television. The chairs were movable, with wheels, which made them convenient for the carers to shuffle their charges about as needed. He knew, that although a few would love a scandal they'd either try too hard to help, and risk exposing it to the whole building, or panic about it unduly and inform an orderly, who'd do exactly the same thing whilst also treating him like an infantile old man. Francis shook his head sadly; it was going to have to be that English speaking arsehole who was gone for at least another 24 hours. He'd have to suffer alone until then.

A slight distraction from his mental ramblings came in the form of Julia herself, who visited him after lunch. Like the rest of the staff, she'd been bustling about all day, looking slightly harried, trying to make everything run on time and smoothly.

Francis was still in his chair and thus was denied any quick means of escape.

'Francis, we need to have a talk.' She was a kindly, yet strict woman with an open face and deep olive skin who carried her responsibility as head nurse very well. She laid her hand gently on his arm, effectively trapping his attention. Francis interrupted before she'd even started talking.

'I don't want any more sleeping pills.'

'Now Francis-'

'No.' He cut her off quickly. 'I don't want anymore. I've had this problem all of my life and as many different types I've tried, my reaction to sleeping medicine has not got any better.' He decided it was best to leave out that they'd started to become progressively worse.

She looked at him sympathetically, or something he defensively interpreted as pity before answering gently. 'Modern medicine gets better every day, the methods you tried in the past have been improved now; there's a high chance there's many new pills that you're not tried that could be prefect for you, we've just go to find the right mix or dose.'

Francis was surprised by the sudden tightness of his throat and the burn in his eyes. He would not be affected this much by something so trivial, he _refused_ to break now.

'I don't-' he swallowed. 'I don't want any more. I'm happy to try anything else, even some hypnotherapy if I really can't sleep, but I don't want to use anymore narcotics. At all.'

He stared straight at her and refused to look away. She had a sad look in her eyes and gave him a weak smile. 'I can't promise you anything, Francis. I can give you my word that I'll try, and I'll give you my word that I will only use them as a last resort, but this is a problem that's not going to go away. You need to sleep in order to remain healthy and that is my primary concern. And I'm afraid that's my decision to make.'

Francis turned away and stared pointedly at the television until she gave his arm one last pat and went away.

* * *

><p>That night Francis lay there silently in bed, half of him alert and listening for footsteps stalling at his door or the creak of a handle being turned, and the other half willing himself to fall asleep naturally. It did happen sometimes, but lately it was becoming more and more difficult to drop off. Tonight, it seemed he was lucky; the events of the night previous, and the tension he'd been carrying all day had drained him, and he dropped off into an uneasy, fitful sleep.<p>

* * *

><p><em>He dreamt of apple orchards and the smell of rain, and looking for someone whom he could never find.<em>

* * *

><p>He was awoken by the sun shining onto his face from that stupid chink in the curtains. He was lain on his side, which explained the stiffness he was now feeling in his spine, so he carefully and slowly rolled over to lay flat on his back. It was early, the time read a quarter past six and he was content to lay there and doze until either Arthur came to get him out of bed or someone else did. A quick and hasty glance in the direct of the case relaxed him; it had neither been moved, nor touched during the night.<p>

He lay undisturbed with his eyes shut and contentedly napping until twenty past seven. The door clicked and his eyes swiftly opened to see Arthur pulling open the curtains to let in more light. He stretched his arms above his head.

'Morning mon cher, you're late this morning.'

'I saw to Mrs Dubois first, sorry for the delay.'

Arthur's accent was thicker than usual today. Francis opened his mouth to comment when he caught a glimpse of Arthur's face. He looked _awful. _In the time he'd known him, he'd never seen Arthur look so stressed; his face was pale and his eyes looked incredibly tired.

'What on earth happened to you?'

Arthur sighed. 'I missed you too Francis.'

He stared intently out of the window at something for a moment before coming across the room to tilt Francis up; then moved across to get him some clothes from the drawer and a glass of water.

Francis accepted the cup, took a sip and placed it on the bedside table. 'I thought your appearance was terrible before, but this is a grand new accomplishment.'

'It's simply because I haven't slept since the night before I last saw you.'

'That was three days ago.'

'That, I am well aware, thank you for your oh so helpful observation.'

'I do aim to please cher.' He looked at the clothes. 'You're not going to really make me wear that, are you?'

Arthur growled at him and huffily threw the clothes back into the drawer before retrieving new ones. Francis wasn't too worried.

Arthur held up and shirt to Francis, who considered it before nodding. 'Better.'

'They're all your clothes, you know. If you don't like something it's your own fault.'

Francis gave him a disgusted look. 'It's not _my _clothes which are the problem, you foolish man, it's the combination you put them in.'

Either Arthur was too tired to care, or he found the argument too below him to rise to, because he remained silent and put the new clothes on the bed, shaking his head slightly.

As Francis unbuttoned his shirt and started to put in on, Arthur reached over back towards the counter and grabbed his clip board. 'How have you slept since I last saw you?'

'Better.' Francis was staring at the buttons of the shirt with deep concentration contorting his features. Arthur made no move to assist him. 'I manage to fall asleep naturally last night and slept the whole way through.'

Arthur nodded and made a note. 'Fits every other time, hopefully the sleep you managed to get from the medicine broke the pattern of insomnia; for a while at least.'

'I hope so.' Francis had finished with his shirt and stared at Arthur expectedly. Moving closer Arthur helped him put his legs in his trousers and then left him to it.

There was a brief, comfortable silence before Arthur rudely broke it.

'Julia spoke to me as I started this morning.' Francis winced as he finished buckling his belt and averted his eyes to look out of the window. 'Just so that you know, I don't agree with her.'

Francis felt a swell of relief that was dampened slightly by his companion's next words. 'But I'm afraid, as you know, there's nothing much I can do.' Noticing Francis' despondent look, he added, 'I've given my opinion, so that should count for something but she's got the final say in the matter. Perhaps she'll consider non-medicinal means before trying another narcotic, but I can't promise you that you'll never have to try another type again.'

Francis sighed. 'Well, I appreciate you trying.'

Arthur nodded and came forward to sit him on the bed to put on his shoes. Once finished, he stood and got ready to help the other up. As Francis placed a hand on Arthur's shoulder to steady him up, he pushed a bit of his shirt sleeve up to reveal a slight red tinge to his skin just above the elbow. He felt a prick of desperation catch in his throat.

'Did I do that?'

Arthur looked down at him arm and smoothed his sleeve back down to cover it. 'It doesn't matter Francis.'

'I did, didn't I?'

'It wasn't your fault.' Francis bit his lip and looked away, guilt licking at his stomach. 'Francis, it's- look at me. Francis.' He looked back. 'I know you didn't mean it; you were hallucinating and it's okay.'

Francis nodded. As Arthur moved to stand back a bit, his sleeve moved and exposed the bottom part slightly. Francis, with every fibre of his being, _hated _sleeping pills and swore that he was going to refuse to swallow any others they tried to give him; he couldn't take this anymore, especially if he was now starting to lose control of himself. The helplessness, and the loss of control that they caused, disgusted him.

Arthur broke any further building awkwardness between them by dipping his head and hesitating, before opening the bedroom door. 'Right, well. Let's get you some frog fuel; there's no point in moping in here all day.'

'I don't miss you at all when you leave, you _cretin_.'

* * *

><p>The morning's conversation led the topic of the case and what he wanted to discuss slip from his mind. Francis didn't get another chance to talk to Arthur until mid-morning. There were a few members of staff off sick and those remaining had to pick up the slack, so Arthur wouldn't stay still or free long enough for Francis to grab him and pull him aside. The longer he went without talking about it, the less serious the situation was becoming and the more foolish he was feeling for his panic. If he didn't tell Arthur soon, he knew he was going to be tempted to say nothing at all and hope the problem would go away, which, although probable, was logically unwise.<p>

After making sure everyone had had something to eat, Arthur slipped out quietly from the room without telling anyone where he was going. As all residents were currently eating in the communal area, Francis knew for one that they'd be alone and two, that Arthur wasn't supposed to be leaving. With the knowledge that a moment like this may not come around again for the rest of the day and the curiosity helping him along, he made up his mind to follow before quickly made his move. Getting up fast proved to be a problem, but as he'd be waiting for a chance to go, he managed to pull himself up on a well-placed table he'd rationally chosen to sit next to after eating. Tracing the direction Arthur took, Francis was about to walk down the corridor leading to the staff room when he caught the sound of Arthur talking softly from the other direction.

Peeking around the other corridor, Francis saw Arthur out of the large French windows in the patio courtyard on his phone. His voice was muffled from this far away, but he was holding his head tiredly in one hand and leaning heavily against the wall. Upon edging closer, he discovered that the conversation, much to his irritation, was being held in English. His pride and the lack necessity for it meant that during his youth and later years he never had a reason to learn English at all. He knew the odd word from shows and films, but apart from hello and goodbye and a few other basics, Francis had no idea what was going on.

His words varied, from his usual abruptness, like the tone he used when talking to Francis, to soft, tired garbles of complicated English syllables. Whatever it was, it was obvious he was talking with someone he knew. Soon after Francis' arrival, Arthur cut the call with a soft 'bye' and opened the door and called from outside. 'Once you're content with abandoning your morals to eavesdrop, Francis, you can come and join me.'

Francis sniffed in distain. 'I couldn't understand any word of your barbarian language anyway.'

'Your reward for eavesdropping on a private conversation.' Arthur held the door open for him as he stepped out and then shut it gently behind him.

'I didn't know that sneaking out to make personal calls on shift was allowed, especially a carer of such a high calibre like yourself.'

Arthur looked away. 'It was important, sadly.'

Francis continued to stare at him.

'I'm not telling you anymore, it was a personal issue.'

Francis sighed through his nose but didn't press any further.

'So?' Arthur looked at him. 'What brought you out here to impose on me?'

Francis looked uncomfortable. 'I need to talk to you about something.'

Arthur gave him a look that asked for more information but patiently waited for him to continue.

It had started to rain, so after a few seconds of silence, Arthur gave a small nod and pushed himself off the wall. 'Let's get it over with inside then, shall we?'

Arthur led him back to his room and helped Francis into a chair. He himself then backed away and leant against the counter. He looked at him and gave him a nod, as if to signify that he was now allowed to speak, a rile that Francis wouldn't allow himself to rise to.

All of a sudden, Francis couldn't think of where to begin.

After a moment of silence, Arthur opened his mouth and Francis held up a hand to quickly silence him. 'The night-' Suddenly, he realised that Arthur was the last person he saw before he fell back asleep, and the person who was last meant to check on his room; in all possibility, it could have even been Arthur. He could be about to voice his worries to the very person that had tampered with his case in the first place. Not only that, but it didn't really seem to be a big issue anymore. Okay, someone moved his case about a bit; there wasn't anything necessarily wrong with that? It wasn't _dangerous; _it wasn't anything he should feel as though he _had _to confide in someone. Someone could have even knocked it during the night whilst they all came in when he woke from his nightmare. It all seemed so stupid now and he felt foolish and unsure of how to continue.

'Francis? Are you okay?' Francis made up his mind, it wasn't worth it; he was just being stupid.

He pulled himself up and looked Arthur in the eye. 'I just wanted to tell you that I'm sorry; about your arm.'

Arthur raised his eyebrows and moved a hand, probably subconsciously, to rub just above his elbow. 'Francis-'

'No, please let me explain.' He breathed out deeply through his nose. 'Just because I was hallucinatory, and yes, I am aware that it wasn't really my fault, I still managed to grip you hard enough to leave a mark after two days, and, intentional or not, I want to apologise properly.'

Arthur reddened, but Francis had to commend him for not looking away. He gave him a sad smile instead. 'Well, thank you, but it's really nothing to worry about; I hold nothing against you… are you sure that was all?'

Francis cursed inwardly at Arthur's habit of attempting prying further than he needed to. 'I'm sure.'

Arthur moved forwards to pat him awkwardly on the shoulder before moving to help him up. 'Okay then, but if there is anything else, please, um… don't hesitate to talk to me, okay?'

Francis stood and waved him off with irritation. 'Yes, yes, I'll make sure I leap to cry at your feet. Now, go away to do your job, goodness knows I don't wish to be around you longer than I have to be and you're almost certainly expected to be somewhere else.'

Arthur scowled at him. 'Of course, your Highness. Pardon me for doing my job.' He responded in English, which reasonably made Francis angry because he although he couldn't understand the meaning, he could guess it wasn't a cheery and uplifting compliment for him. He huffed at him and watched as Arthur stalked away.

Although he hadn't intended to, apologising had at least eased some of the guilt he didn't realise he'd been carrying about with him all morning until it had ceased to twist in his stomach. He sighed and glanced at the case before moving over to inspect it. During breakfast, someone had made his bed and the day before his books had been collected from off the floor and had stacked none too neatly back on top of the scuffed leather. With his foot, he carefully, and with a depressing amount of effort on his part, he slid the briefcase back to its original position. Picking up the first book on top, he eased himself into his chair slowly using a wall frame, and read the morning away.

* * *

><p><span><strong>AN: Hello!<strong>

**Sorry that I've been gone for so long, but I'm hoping to be back and ready to go again for the summer! I also apologise for the shorter length; the other part is already written and they were originally one chapter, but they're too long all in one go. Thanks for bearing with me! I hope it's not too boring; the pack will be picking up soon :)**

**Thank you very much for reading, please let me know what you thought.**

**~AHWH~**


	3. Terror Makes You Act

**Terror Makes You Act**

As each shift was twelve hours long, today Arthur had left at seven after clocking in seven am. The night shift was also twelve hours long, with brief overlaps required to relieve the daytime staff or their night-shift colleagues respectively. As neither Arthur nor Annette had any patients who required any extra medical needs or lifting, one usually arrived at just before seven am to leave twelve hours later and the other would arrive at ten am, then they'd switch the next day. This way, all of the four patients between them would be helped in or out of bed by at least one of them. Although the system worked well, as the patients, especially Mr Picot who was losing his memory, knew to trust their carers and settle into a routine, it also meant that Francis was either constantly settled in or woken up by one of the two most irritable members of staff. He was happily delighted, then, when he was gifted with the presence of Amélie knocking and sticking her head thorough the door instead. As of yet Amélie had no patients of her own and she was usually found either helping out morning or night shifts wherever she was needed.

'Ma cherie, you don't know how glad I am to see you.'

She gave him a bright smile and moved fully into the room. 'I'm happy to see you too, have you have a nice evening?'

'I have indeed.' He smiled at her from his spot on the chair. 'Though, if you don't mind me asking, where is Annette?'

'Oh, it's no trouble. She's got other residents to see too as Jacques's taken the evening off sick.'

'Another member sick?'

She hmm'd sadly. 'Yes, there's something going around.'

'Well, you make sure you look after yourself; they're keeping you busy, no? I've hardly seen you all day.'

She nodded and bent to collect his nightclothes from the drawer. 'I think Julia's trying to get me properly acquainted with everyone in the building to see who I could offer the most help to. It's been very interested talking to everyone.'

She was very slim and just below average height, so Francis doubted she'd be able to help over half of the population in this building, especially those who required lifting. 'I might be lucky chou, I could be blessed with you instead of stuff old Arthur.'

She laughed politely and gently helped him off the chair and into bed where she helped him change into his nightclothes.

When he was comfortably settled down, she straightened up and nervously tugged her short brown hair. 'Arthur isn't… I mean he'd not… _cruel _to you, is he? Anything you say won't go further than here, of course, unless you want it to.'

'What? Oh no no, Cherie, no; we're just joking! Has Julia said something?'

She shook her head but looked relieved. 'No, I was just wondering after hearing how he speaks to you. He's so nice with everyone else and I was just worried that… maybe…well…'

Francis took her hand and gave her a wink. 'Do you really think I'd let an Englishman continue to be within shooting range of me if he were truly bothering me?'

She laughed genuinely this time, and gave his hand a friendly stroke. 'I don't doubt it, Francis.

After asking if he needed anything else, Amélie fetched him his nightly pills and a glass of water before bidding him goodnight, dimming the lights and shutting the door.

Francis had a deep, dreamless sleep.

* * *

><p>The next morning, once he cracked open an eye warily, offered no changes in the matter of his case and Francis was content to forget that anything had ever happened to it at all. It was obviously mere paranoia; maybe he or someone else had moved the case ages ago and he had just noticed it then. Or, maybe, the books had fallen off ages ago and he'd again not noticed. Although he knew these scenarios were unlikely, it was far more unlikely that anything suspicious was going on and he was happy to move on and pass the whole thing off as 'one of those things'.<p>

He was unhappily extracted from his bed by Annette and was then unexcitedly seated next to old Mr Picot during breakfast, where he pretended to be surprised by the same funny story of his that he happily told Francis at least once a day. After his boring morning, of which neither Amélie nor any other young, fun carer was free to entertain him, Francis desperately needed a nap to fly him to the afternoon and relieve him from the hourly growing tedium. He dozed in an armchair by the fancy bay windows and then woke up for a light lunch before watching an hour's worth of news about some recent storms which had caused extensive flash flooding in South East England and were leaving a death toll in their wake. He tried to pass time playing chess with another resident but, after being unable to decide whether his competitor was taking time between moves to concentrate and plan, or to simply remind himself of how to play, Francis gave up. He managed to last until about five in the evening before the utter frustration at being unable to occupy himself with something inside burst, causing him to fidget with an agitation he knew wouldn't pass. So, when no one was watching, he escaped the home and the depressive mentions of death and degeneration to womble down to his favourite bench, the furthest yet safest distance for him from the home; staying with a sketch book to enjoy the sunshine.

He hadn't tried to draw in a while; recently his hands had begun to lose the perfect control his mind knew they were once capable of and this had saddened and frustrated him too much to attempt again. Today, though, had tempted him to try. It was nice and warm outside; the sun had arced over the sky and lazed in front of him, overlooking the grassy field and trees and basking them in yellow tones. His favourite light to draw in had been early morning; when the air felt fresh and sharp and the light was clear, or in the late afternoon and early evening when the tones were deeper and the air heavy with the day. It felt nice just to sit and be alone for a while, where his mind didn't feel reminded about the newer and unwelcome restraints age had shackled on his body.

His peace was broken over an hour later (a new record in terms of his escape attempts) by, of course, Arthur.

Francis heard him before he saw him, as seemed to be his style. 'For fuck's sake Francis, Jean was in charge of the communal room today, you could have at least told him you were leaving in passing; poor bloke looks like he's about to have kittens.' His voice came from his right; accent thick.

He didn't look up, but continued to shakily attempt to sketch an outline of one of the trees in front of him. It was taking a while. 'Mon lapin, when art calls, you must answer it.'

'Yes, that's lovely, but you need to come back now and apologise to Jean first, maybe he'll let you back out again.'

'I'm not a caged animal,' he spat vehemently all feelings of peace shattered instantly, 'I should not need permission to be _let out_.'

Arthur didn't reply for so long that Francis looked up to make sure that he was still there. He glanced to where the Arthur voice had come from and had to consciously stop himself from forming an expression of shock. If possible, Arthur looked worse than yesterday; it was obvious that he once again had not slept and his face was so pale and pained looking it was surprising he wasn't asleep on his feet.

Arthur didn't change his expression. 'It's rude to stare, you know.'

'Mon dieu cher, are you ill?' Francis scooted up the bench with the obvious intention of forcing Arthur to sit down.

Arthur scowled at him but accepted the unspoken offer; sitting heavily and slouching forward to rest his elbows on his thighs. 'No, I'm not. God knows what the rest of them are getting; I just haven't slept at all.'

'Have you not tried sleeping pills?' If Arthur hadn't looked so terrible, Francis probably would have laughed at the similarities of their situations.

Arthur shook his head slowly and his hair was ruffled slightly by a cool, sea brought breeze. 'No, they don't work on me; never have.'

'Well dieu, I know you don't exactly do much in the way of help around here, but you can't be of use to anyone like this.'

Arthur didn't rise to the insult, but merely grunted before answering in a flat tone. 'No, I'm not, but with the amount of staff currently going off there's not enough left to manage everyone safely, so I can't afford to take time off if I'm not actually ill. Besides, I'm only tired; I can still help and I'm not a risk to the vulnerable elderly, such as yourself.'

Francis frowned at him but let him be; turning back to his sketch book, he continued to draw.

They sat for a while in companionable silence; Arthur seemingly having given up the fight to return him after sitting down and not moving. It was swiftly broken, however, as Arthur's phone bleeped a new text message. Retrieving it from his trouser pocket, he read it swiftly as Francis continued to draw and then released a deep sigh through his nose. 'Come on Francis, time to go. Jean is really starting to panic.'

Francis concentrated on shading the trunk of the tree. 'Can't you text him to let him know where I am?'

'I did,' Arthur placed his phone back in his pocket after flying his finger across the screen, 'but it's going to start getting dark soon and chilly, and I'd rather not drag you back up hill in limited visibility; I don't think your frail old man eyes could take it.'

Being unable to protest, and unwilling to admit that he was becoming slightly cold; Francis slotted his pencil into the ringed binder and shut the book. 'Fine, let's go.'

Arthur stood in an easy movement, but, once up, clenched his eyes shut and gripped the back of the bench as he swayed suddenly. Francis, despite himself, found himself horribly concerned. 'Arthur? Are you alright?' He shifted himself along the bench and tried to tug him into sitting again, but Arthur wouldn't budge. 'Please, sit back down.'

Arthur opened his eyes and took a shaky breath before speaking. 'I'm okay; I just stood up too quickly.'

'Nonsense! Arthur, seriously, you need to go home.'

Arthur moved in front of him and made to help him stand, but Francis wouldn't cooperate and kept batting his hands away. Frustrated, Arthur stood back and run a hand through his hair exasperatedly. 'Okay, okay, fine. I'll take you back, and then I'll ask Jean if he'll let me go, alright?'

If anything, Arthur's quick consent to time off work due to poor health without a fight made Francis worry more, and he tried to put as little of his weight on Arthur as possible as he was helped up. As they set off, Arthur kept pace with Francis but Francis couldn't help but notice that the orderly walked slowly even without Francis pacing them and with a slight stiffness hindering his left leg. Back in the home, Francis made sure to deliver Arthur to Jean himself, who promptly, upon seeing him, agreed with Francis that he needed to go home and rest. Francis was then given a firm scolding and a promise that Annette would be made aware of what he'd been up to, something Francis dreaded more than anything.

He wasn't wrong to be afraid. As Arthur had left just after five, Annette was still prowling about and searched for him until he was found. Francis had a sickening suspicion that she must have had something to do with law enforcement in previous years.

She caught him whilst he was rearranging the books that usually sat on his case and strode in without even a hello.

'Mr Bonnefoy, I'm warning you _right now _that if you walk off again, without telling anyone, your outside privileges will be revoked and if you _do_ ever gain them back again, you _will _ be companied by a member of staff at all times.'

She held up a hand as Francis opened his mouth to interject. 'I don't want to hear it, sir, you have no say in this matter; myself and Mr Kirkland are responsible for your care and it will be our decision and ours alone. Do you understand?'

He clenched his teeth but managed to ground out a 'perfectly' before she nodded haughtily and left him alone to seethe.

* * *

><p><em>He was in a room where the air was cool, overlooking a vast green field where the setting sun carved long, deep shadows through the grass. He was on his toes to stare out of the window but dropped back down when a hand clasped his shoulder, and gave it a tight, friendly squeeze. The walls in front of him were white. 'You'll grow up nice and strong; I know you'll make me proud.' The hand moved to ruffle his hair and he knew his mouth was stretched into a wide grin. He wore sandals and thought that they'd do perfectly for exploring the fields tomorrow. <em>

* * *

><p>It was Jean who shook him away the next morning.<p>

'Francis? It's lovely that you're sleeping again, my friend, but I'm afraid it's time to get up now.' He had a gruff, but pleasant voice, but this morning it was grating and made Francis want to burrow into his blankets to get away from it.

He cracked open and eye to see Jean's lanky form and thinning head loom above him.

'There we go.' Jean clapped him on the shoulder and raised him up. Francis liked Jean; he often sat with him and told him dirty jokes and stories or gave Francis more leeway when it came to things like allowing Francis to meddle in the kitchen or other forms of rule breaking.

'I'm sorry about feeding you to Annette yesterday,' he continued; a guilty tone lacing his voice, 'but I was really panicking when I couldn't find you and I need you to understand how important it is that you tell someone where you go.'

Francis nodded glumly but gave him a smile. 'I know, I probably deserved it.'

Jean laughed, 'You did; what if something happened to you and no one knew where you were? I'd lose my best partner in crime!'

Francis gave him a grin in return and allowed himself to be helped up and dressed by Jean's rough hands.

'Arthur not here?'

Jean shook his head sadly. 'No, he requested four days off saying that he felt worse.' He stopped to shift Francis' arms through his sleeves and pull them into position. 'I knew he looked awful yesterday but we have so many people off and he said he was fine and willing to work. I was so desperate for people but I should have realised that he wasn't up for it.'

Frustratingly, this news made Francis more worried about him. Bastard, causing issues even when he wasn't here.

Jean finished dressing him and accompanied him to the communal area for breakfast. The day, although it had started off with a good morning, didn't stay that way. During breakfast, a meal of simple croissants and jam, Francis happened to glance out of the window in the eating area by chance and could have sworn that he saw someone pass by outside that he didn't know, which, considering the location of the home, was concerning. After passing it off as either most likely a gardener, Francis then wandered back to his room after breakfast to retrieve a book from his room for him to read back in the communal area. Pushing open his door, his eyes were drawn to the window to find that it was barely open and the shelf of knick-knacks underneath it had been disturbed slightly. He stood for a moment in the doorway, bewildered, before cautiously moving forward to have a closer look. For the life of him, he could have _sworn_ that when he left for breakfast, he'd left it tightly shut. That's not to say that an orderly hadn't been in after him and had pushed it open again, but that didn't explain the disturbance of his things. The shelf underneath had objects on it because it wasn't in the way of the window; it was lower than the ledge and was placed accordingly for a wheelchair user occupant to get to easily. The nurses often brushed some things with the hem of their shirts as they reached to unlock the handle and swing open the window, but it was low enough that they'd never touched or knocked anything before. Rooms were polished once a week, but the cleaners only came in a couple of days ago.

On the shelf, there was a small glass duck; an exquisitely made piece from his wife one anniversary, a small cradle of potpourri, a photo frame of his parents and himself when he was a young man, an open watch box containing the old, silver wristwatch his father used to wear, and in the middle sat a small box which had his wife's wedding ring on a chain. The photo, which had been sat directly left of the ring and facing the room, had been pushed to the left and it had in turn moved the duck precariously close to the edge. Likewise, on the right, the potpourri had shifted forwards to the shelf's edge after being nudged by the ring box.

He stood staring at the shelf and then warily cast his eyes about the room. Nothing else had been touched. Even the case sat, as it had done for a while now, untouched and innocent looking to the right of the shelf and window, still tucked in its corner. After a further, careful inspection of his room turned up nothing else abnormal, he warily sat in his chair to read rather than going back to the main room; occasionally flicking his eyes towards the window.

Incidents such at this continued for the next two days. Some staff had filtered back in again and the home was

back to almost normal stress levels, but Francis was anything but comfortable. Although he hadn't _seen _anything else, he constantly felt watched, or that there was someone lurking in his peripheral vision. And even though he told himself that his feelings were a result of the previous incidents, his room felt _different. _Nothing was out of place at all, but things didn't seem as though they were in the same place they'd always been. Like someone had touched them and put them straight back; exactly as they'd been originally but just that tiny bit too far left or right. Berating himself for suddenly becoming so paranoid about nothing, Francis tried his hardest to ignore the feeling and attempted to continue as normal, which he was finding increasingly more difficult as days went by.

* * *

><p><em>He dreamt that he was holding a toy sword tight in a fist. His dad dressed him in a top that was too long and it hung lower than he could ever remember it being. There was a smell of blood in the air; sharp and intruding it caught his nose and he connected the smell to the swirling pool of rage and guilt twisting and roaring in his chest. A child was crying and Francis tried to tell himself that he felt nothing.<em>

* * *

><p>On the third day of Arthur's absence, rather than being relaxed about having some pest freer mornings and evening, he was feeling so anxious that if anyone were to touch him unawares he thought he'd probably scream and or have a heart attack. If the carers noticed they hadn't said anything, although Annette was being oddly calm with him and had even suggested that he took a walk or signed up for the beach trip that was being held in a few days' time.<p>

Francis calmed himself by baking. He'd been allowed into the kitchen by Amélie's suggestion to give him something to do and to be practical, supervised only; to create a few tarts in the honour of the extra hours of sun the summer was gifting them. For a few hours, Francis forgot himself entirely, and if it weren't for his hands which shook if he tried to do anything too delicate, he wouldn't have noticed his age at all. Emma, the kitchen help, also turned out to be a very cheerful and jokey lady, when not being loomed over by Louisa. She helped him by operating the oven and anything else up too high or low and spoke to him over her shoulder as she placed the little tarts on a tray. 'These need to go into the oven for how long?'

Francis patted some crumbs from his hands before washing them in the sink. 'Just half an hour on a high heat; make sure not to open the door though otherwise the pastry won't come out right.'

Emma raised her eyebrow at him and bent down to put them in. 'I know Francis.' Straightening up again, she smiled at him. 'Okay, you may as well go back to your room again and rest for a bit; we've got to get ready for lunch but I'll let you know when they're done.'

He conceded and moved into the corridor. The passage to his room was empty, and apart from muffled talking from behind him and the sound of someone talking in their room, it was beautifully silent. As he approached his room a small pip of anxiety dropped into his stomach. His door was shut, which was odd as he could have sworn that he'd left it open to help keep it cool as the sun continued to stream in through his window in the morning. He approached it slowly; treading as softly as he could. 'Don't be so stupid, you senile old fool.' He scolding himself before grabbing the handle with confidence he didn't really feel and pushed open his door to stride in. As his eyes adjusted to the light from the window, a cry caught in his throat and died.

His case, that he'd pushed back and everyday made _sure_ was pushed back, had once again been moved. Further forward this time and pulled horizontally, the top was exposed; his books were strewn across the bed as though they'd been thrown in a hurry and forgotten about. The room was, thankfully, empty, but all Francis could see was his case which now had deep, violent scratches running through the old leather across the top by the locks. The locks themselves were scratched and the leather impressions were deep and jagged. Although old, the leather was very thick and the locks very strong, so the cuts themselves were testimony to the furious, unrestrained violence someone had inflicted upon the briefcase wielding something very sharp and with a lot of strength.

Francis' mind went blank; too shocked to feel any fear or panic he could only stand there in the doorway, one hand gripping the frame and the other hanging uselessly by his side. The window was once again open and the curtains fluttered pathetically in the slight breeze. Whoever it was, it wasn't Arthur and Francis was completely and utterly alone.

* * *

><p>It had taken a few minutes to move into his room again. Being unable to tear his eyes from the case, Francis had every instinct he possessed screaming at him to get out of the room and to somewhere with people as fast as he possibly could. The thing that was concerning him the most at the moment was the violence of it all, those gashes were deep and frenzied and the person must have had such an <em>anger <em>or desperate need to either the importance of the contents, or the inability to gain access to whatever was inside. After checking the entire room first to make sure that he was once again alone; Francis shut the door and window and went to look closer at the case. After his heart had stopped beating so furiously logic had allowed fear to be replaced by anger. Who the _hell _was doing this? What damned _right _did they have, to damage and attempt to steal from him? Francis pulled his zimmer frame, which he tried not to use at all costs, from its place tucked next to the wardrobe towards him and eased himself to the floor. He knees instantly protested but Francis ignored them in favour of pulling the case forward to inspect it.

The cuts, although being deep and caused by someone with a lot of power, had not been enough to penetrate the casing. No cut was straight; each deep gauge had been created through repeated slashes aimed at the same spot. The tough leather had held out, despite its age. Turning to the locks, Francis tried to pry the case open and still found it stuck fast. Locks were just as well made, for there were smaller cuts aimed at the joining where metal met leather that had obviously been made with more care and intention. Maybe with a sawing motion rather than a slashing one had caused these. The locks themselves were ones fastened shut with a key that Francis had never seen, even though he had thoroughly searched his loft a thousand times after he first found it. At first he'd curiously tried to see what was inside, but after being denied entry after a few attempts, he'd lost interest. It made sense that the person had attempted to break the lock, maybe by picking it first and then cutting them open, but had lost their temper and self-control and had let loose in a last ditch attempt to gain entry. Francis looked up and scanned the shelf.

Sure enough, there was evidence of a disturbance again. Someone was clearly climbing in through the window. Creaking himself up, Francis got up and crossed the room before checking inside the ring box and inspecting the watch. Both there.

He then walked to his wardrobe to open his drawers where other valuables lay hidden; the same was repeated for the bedside table. The ones in his wardrobe were slight open, and the clothes inside were disorganised and ruffled. He never really went into his drawers as they mostly contained clothes, so he couldn't tell if this disturbance was from today or some previous. Clearly, someone thought that he had the key to the case.

All valuables were there. This was obviously not a break in for money or other form of petty theft. Nothing was taken, even things obviously on show, and no other resident had experienced any problems. This was all down to the case, and whatever it was guarding. Francis gingerly sunk himself into his chair and rested his head in his hands; fingers gripping onto his hair. They must have heard him returning and fled. Whoever it was, they probably wouldn't be coming back today. Day time itself carried a big risk and gave an indication to the would-be thief's desperation as there were so many people about to see you; residents could see anyone entering either from outside or from the rooms opposite which often left their doors open during the day and staff could easily catch someone being somewhere they shouldn't. Now that he knew the perpetrator was entering through the window, the other residents could definitely be ruled out. None were fit enough, and nor did they have the key to the window. Only the carers and cleaners did, which also ruled out a person from the nearby town and the gardeners. But why would a carer or cleaner take such a big risk by acting during the day and risk being recognised? When would they have the time? Or had they been seen and were convincing the resident or fellow staff member to stay quiet?

The other break-ins to his room, for now with hard evidence in front of him Francis knew that's what the other incidents were, had been subtle, leaving behind no suspicious clues to anyone other than sharp eyed Francis. Now, with these gashes being very, very real, time must have run out, for both him and his case. The attempts had been caught and exposed, and judging by the story of furious desperation and violence of the attack told by the gashes, time was running out for whatever reason for them too.

By almost catching them in the act, Francis had started a timer towards a consequence. He had to do something; the options being to continue to ignore it, or tell someone. Whoever did this must know that. If he did nothing, the attacker couldn't run the risk of him exposing the event later; someone would surely ask questions sooner or later about the case's new appearance, so Francis was putting himself is very real danger. Tonight, when he fell asleep, there was a high chance that he wouldn't be awake come morning to say anything to anyone, especially if the intruder had access to keys. If he told someone, police would become involved. The time between Francis telling someone, or falling asleep at night. That was his time frame to act; he didn't have any longer.

Francis let out a noise of frustration and angrily cast his eyes back towards the window again. Everyone in this damn home was suspect, even those in the kitchen; how many people could be working together? The only fucking one who wasn't, wasn't here. Whilst guaranteeing Arthur's innocence, his absence also left Francis vulnerable and alone. He let out a long sigh. This wasn't about paranoid delusions or fears of an old man anymore, this was a real threat and Francis knew that he didn't have long left to think about pride or consequences. He needed to talk to someone who he knew wouldn't turn against him and something strong and unquestionable in his gut told in that that person was Arthur. He needed to call Arthur for advice or for his return and either one he needed _today._

'Francis?' Emma stuck her head from around the door. He hadn't heard her approach.

'The tarts are okay to come out, I thought I'd let you come and see them…are you okay? You look pale.'

She came forward and rubbed her hands on her apron worriedly.

He tried to smile for her, but had a sinking feeling that it turned more into a grimace instead. 'I'm fine, just a bit tired from standing up for so long, that's all.'

She looked doubtful. 'Are you sure? I think I should tell somebody…'

'No! Please,' he gave a weak laugh, 'they'll just panic and pump me with pills; honestly Emma, ma cherie, I'm perfectly fine. Now!' He clapped his hands and motioned for her to come closer. 'You have the opportunity to make a beautiful old man very happy, so would you be a darling and help me up? Not that I don't trust your skills at all, mon chou, but those tarts have a very delicate pastry and I need to check that they're okay.'

Emma rolled her eyes and grinned, but came over anyway. 'You, Mr Bonnefoy, are utterly horrid, you know that, yes?'

She supported him as he stood and a dollop of his old pride around women resurfaced and forced him to try to appear as strong as possible by barely using her to stand. 'Oui, oui, I've been made aware. Now, please do me the honours.' Arm linked in hers, he allowed her to lead him from the room without looking back.

* * *

><p>Francis spent the afternoon trying to act as though everything was okay whilst also planning a way to somehow contact Arthur.<p>

His tarts, of course, were perfect, and he spent a while fussing in the kitchen and eating some with kitchen workers to keep up appearances. Emma kept an eye on him for a while but, seeing no other symptoms she should be worried about, eventually let the matter drop and left him alone. After being scolded for ruining appetites, he was shooed out of the kitchen and told to get ready for lunch. The corridor he was ushered to was once more, empty. The residents were congregated in the main room, and from where he stood to his left he could already see most of them either seated or in the process of being so around the large tables that had been moved away from the walls to the middle of the room. The carers, still being smaller in number than usual, were all out in force to try and get things to run smoothly. Now was a good a time as any.

Ignoring the calls for dinner and the smells for the kitchen, Francis pulled away to the right. Passing his room, his door was slightly jar as he'd left it, but he didn't break stride to either check its safety or alert any activity inside to what he was up to. On approaching the T split in the corridor, he turned right again towards the direction of the staff room; passing rooms, bathrooms and cupboards as he went. All bedrooms were open and empty, their occupants being settled for dinner and the cupboards shut and locked tight as usual. At the very end of the corridor, was the staff room.

Francis had never been inside before; he'd never had any reason to, and he now found himself cautious. He didn't really have a plan in mind; finding the right time and finding it fast had occupied most of his thoughts but he was hoping that there was an emergency contact or a home number list for carers that he could use.

The room inside was what he expected it to be. Staff didn't spend much time in here other than their lunch breaks and when they arrived or left, so it was sparely decorated like the rest of the home with few personal touches. It was a large open plan room, with a wall from the right jutting out towards the left and creating a split between a small kitchen area with a fridge, some cupboards and a microwave in one half and some lockers and coat pegs in the other side. There was a whiteboard taking up a large part of one cream wall, with residents' names written in groups of colours down one side and a series of ticks going along the length, probably for different pills or schedules they needed. There was also a cork-board on another, with a sheet of what seemed to be shift times and some post-it notes to fellow workers: one asking whether someone had lost a jacket and another one from Julia reminding the staff that there would be an inspection by a health official in a month's time. A solitary painting of a countryside setting hung above it. There were some faded, well used blue sofas in the middle of the room turned towards a small TV in the corner which sat atop a small chest of drawers. These were next to a small table with a vaseful of flowers on top, placed underneath the whiteboard.

Francis decided to check cork-board first. The shift times, although useful as to who was in when, there were no mentions of staff personal details. The drawers under the TV were just as helpful; he only found a ledger of resident details from the opening of the home until today which gave a list of the patients' needs upon arrival, a list of their needs and past medical history and a list of contact information for family and a number for a relative to contact in case of an emergency. He also found pens and some notepads, a couple of old newspapers, and in the bottom drawer he found a folder of holiday time sheets with the most recent one on top.

He was starting to become anxious; he was running out of time before someone noticed he wasn't on his way to lunch and would come looking for him. He couldn't really think of an explanation for if he was found in here leafing through the staffroom either. He quickly scanned the rest of the living room and the kitchen area and finding nothing before moving to the cloakroom part. He had no intention of going through employee belongings, but even nosing in the area made him feel uncomfortable and his quick search of the walls turned up nothing. Despairingly, he gave one last turn to scan the whole room, hoping that something would turn up, but no luck. He sighed and accepted defeat for now; he could always come back before dinner when everyone was busy again but the sooner he contacted Arthur, the better. Turning to leave, he let out a cry of surprise as he spotted a notice on the back of the door. Feeling stupid for having not checked before, he moved to have a closer look. It was a list of staff names in what appeared to be in order of start of employment, with Amélie at the bottom and Arthur just above her and names right at the top which had been scored through. A series of numbers were beside each name, probably home and mobile numbers and Francis hurried back to the draw to grab a pen and piece of note paper.

After quickly scribbling the numbers next to Arthur, he pocketed the paper and slipped back into the hall and smoothed his face into an innocent looking expression as he walked to lunch.

* * *

><p>The actual finding of a phone wasn't going to be a problem. There was one in the main lounge area, and one in the T of every corridor. They were available for residents to use to call relatives or friends and, if questioned, Francis could easily pass off his call as being one to a cousin of his. To his great relief, no one questioned his lateness to lunch and his excuse of being in the bathroom went unused.<p>

After eating, he excused himself as soon as he could without appearing too sneaky and made his way to the phone in the T by the staff room. He dialled what seemed like the mobile number first, but there was no answer. Hoping that someone would pick up, he dialled the second number.

'_Hello?'_

It wasn't Arthur. '_Can I help you?' _

The voice was speaking in English but had a very strong accent that was different to Arthur's; Francis decided to hope that it was a friend or family member and the number was correct.

'Hello? Can I speak with Arthur please?'

He spoke in French, knowing nothing else and hoping that if it was someone Arthur knew, they'd realise it was someone from work and would pass the phone along.

'_May I ask who's calling?'_

To Francis' surprise, the voice answered in French, albeit with what he could now tell what a Scottish lilt. At least this confirmed the number matched Arthur.

'It's someone from his work, is he available?'

'…._He's been given some time off to recover; I'm afraid he's resting at the moment. Would you like to leave a message with me?'_

'No, please,' he could feel the desperation from being so close and yet so far leaking into his voice and he tried to pull it back. 'It's extremely important; I have to talk to him.'

'_Look.' _The other person sounded like they were getting frustrated. '_I'm very sorry, but he comes back in two days, you can talk to him then.'_

The clock on the wall in front of him read 1:38; he didn't have _time_ for this. 'This is an urgent matter, please just pass the phone along so I can have a quick word and then I'll leave him alone.' Even if Arthur refused to come back, at least talking to another person would help him put a perspective on things and how was best to act, he knew it would be utterly stupid to keep this to himself now.

There was talking in the background and a swear, followed by angry mutterings in English before the airway was filled with rustling and a new voice came on the phone.

'_Hello? It's Arthur.'_

_Oh thank God…_'Arthur? It's me, Francis.'

'_Francis? __Why'r-... what's wrong?' _He, rightly, sounded bewildered; obviously expecting a co-worker.

'I know I shouldn't be calling you out of the blue but something's happened and I need your advice, right now.'

Arthur sighed down the phone. '_Francis…can't you have waited? I'm sure Annette can help you as well, whatever it is.'_

'No it's not something…' He paused, frustrated at himself for not being able to articulate and quickly as his mind needed him to. 'Someone has been breaking into my room for the last week or so but today they've tried to break into my briefcase; the locked on in the corner, and I- I don't know if you know anyone or anything as to _why _this is happening but I stupidly don't feel _safe_ about this and I wondered if you had any suggestions at all?' He paused to collect himself but Arthur offered no interruption. 'I mean, it's only a small incident but it's still serious, no? I may be in a home but it's a personal room with private belongings; is this not attempted theft? Should I go to Julia? Or is this just-'

'_Francis, you must get back to your room.'_

…What?

'_Francis, I need you to listen to me and listen to me carefully. Whatever you do, you are to _not _let that case out of your sight, do you understand me?'_

Whatever sarcastic response of advice he had been expecting had not come; he'd not planned for Arthur to take him seriously from the offset.

'But I?'

'_For fuck's sake Francis!' _Arthur's voice had risen and Francis found himself gripping the phone tight to his ear; heart starting to pound in his chest._ 'This is more serious than you know and I need you to trust me and for once just do as I ask. Go back to your room _right now _and stay there; no matter what.'_

'Arthur-'

'_No matter what! Any fucking excuse, any fucking reason, just stay there and look after that case! I don't care how you do it, but until I get back there there's a damn high chance that something's going to go very bloody wrong.' _There were other noises in the background as if Arthur was moving about the room; footfalls were quick and harsh on a carpeted floor. An exasperated voice called his name but he carried on talking. '_I'm coming back; I'm only in Calais so I should be back by tonight; shit I can't believe this!'_

Arthur stopped moving, probably realising that Francis hadn't spoken in a while. '_Francis? You still there?'_

He swallowed. 'Yes.'

'_Do you understand me?'_

'Unfortunately I do.'

'_I know it's a lot but I need you to trust me. I'll see you soon.' _He clicked off and Francis found himself focusing on a steady dial tone. Breathing deeply, he gently set the phone back in its cradle and glanced towards the door to his room. It was strange, but Francis did trust him; by mirroring his own fears, Arthur had confirmed the theory that this was more than just a petty break-in; this was something serious that for whatever reason involved the risk of Francis' life. Something deep down in his gut instinct told him to trust Arthur and having no other options right now, Francis decided to act on the chance that his gut was right.

There was nothing for it, the case was important and Francis needed to make sure it stayed with him.

* * *

><p>Francis informed Jaques, who was on duty in the communal area, that he was going to go and read in his room. Although confident that for at least a time he was safe, Francis still shut and locked the window from the inside and closed his door before settling gingerly in his chair. Before he sat down, he'd moved the case so that it rested between his legs, thus alerting him to any disturbances to it. He planned to sleep quickly; a short nap to give him energy he knew he'd need later if he ended up laying awake at night on guard.<p>

Although weary, he was too aware of himself and the case to drop asleep. He shifted about, his neck became uncomfortable in one position if it stayed there for too long and the weight of the case on his legs was a constant reminder of the situation. He shut his eyes tight and concentrated on his breathing; steady breaths in and slow, deep ones out again. His lungs felt free and the heaviness of age seemed to have lifted in the moment, caught and snatched by the adrenaline thrumming through his veins.

* * *

><p><em>He was in a large room which was empty apart from himself and one other person. The dream was darkened, but he knew there to be large, brilliant windows which lined the room and beautiful statues and old damask chairs beside windowsills, with painting in ornate gilded frames hung from the walls. It was warm; a musty radiator smell filled the air that made the room cold and reserved in manner. The long, formal room filled with familiar, cosy smells juxtaposed and did nothing make him feel comfortable or at ease.<em>

_He spoke with a tall man with a mop of dark hair; long and lanky he stood opposite Francis speaking and moving with the grace of a politician. 'You can help me then, yes?' He tilted his head, a smile pulling at his lips._

_Francis laughed. 'Of course I can try, but I'm not as close to him as you seem to think I am.'_

_The man held out a case he'd been carrying. He passed it to Francis and he held its heavy weight carefully._

'_You know what this is, don't you?'_

_Francis shook his head and stroked his hand across the old leather._

'_Don't lie!' Francis' eyes snapped up and locked with his companion's. He now stood tense, eyes cold and stare unwavering. 'Do not, Sir, lie to me.'_

'_I'm not lying?' Francis sounded confused to his own ears_

_Anger, sudden thick, intense anger poured from every part of the other man; his hands clenched and he tightened his jaw, head erect and chin up with cold eyes that were twisted into a scowl of such intense anger than Francis had to stop himself from stepping back. The change was so swift that it threw Francis off his mental track before his mind stuttered further to a stop at a quick flash of metal. A loud shout, Francis throwing the case away and then a sudden bang followed by a pressure that hot him square in the chest. The ceiling swung back as he fell to the floor, the wooden boards greeting his back and forcing the air from his lungs._

* * *

><p>'Mr Bonnefoy!'<p>

Francis woke with a strangled gasp. Annette was shaking his shoulder violently and her face looked uncharacteristically worried. He fought to quickly control his breathing and quell his shaking before she noticed anything. He left one hand clutching the area above his heart. 'Madame, what on earth do you think you're doing?'

'I came in to check on you, are you alright? Let me read your pulse-'

Francis batted her hand away as she tried to latch onto his wrist. 'I am fine, Annette, I must have fallen asleep reading; did you need to wake me up so violently?'

She drew back with a huff and Francis thanked his stars that she was as easy to rile as Arthur. 'You merely looked as though you were having a nightmare so I thought it'd be best to wake you, taking into consideration as well, sir, that sleeping during the day will do no wonders to your sleep schedule at night, not to mention that we've just settled it into a nice rhythm again.'

Francis refrained from mentioning that it was _he _who was sleeping regularly again; she had done nothing to aid it at all. 'Well thank you, I can't help but be awake now.'

Annette bristled. 'No need to be so short with me Mr Bonnefoy, I'm only doing what's best for you.' She glanced at the watch on her wrist. 'If you can stay awake for just forty five more minutes, you'll be able to get something for dinner. I trust that you'll be able to do that, of course.'

Francis braced himself. 'I'd prefer to eat in here, if that's okay.'

Annette stared at him. 'In here? Are you not feeling well, Mr Bonnefoy?'

Francis shook his head but wasn't given time to answer before Annette spoke up again, monotonous voice dutifully reciting what he already knew. 'Residents all eat together; unless you have good reason to think of yourself as deserving special treatment I'm afraid you're going to have to come and join the rest.'

Francis quickly pulled up the first excuse he could think of. 'I had a minor… confrontation with Mrs Dubois the other day-'

Annette held up her hand before he could say much more and gave his a disapproving stare. 'You wish to stay in here because you are scared of a female resident, is that correct?'

Francis swallowed his pride, Arthur's words ringing in his ears. He shuffled in his chair and tried his hardest not to care about his reputation too much. Looking Annette in the eye, he tried to be as convincing as possible. 'I wouldn't say _scared…_' He folded his hands together and held his head up straighter. 'More, _concerned_ for her mental well-being, should I eat with her. I cannot guarantee my good behaviour when that detestable woman shovels food into her face like a_ boar-'_

It worked, Annette huffed at him for antagonising fellow residents but let him be for this night and this night only; tomorrow he was to make amends and behave in a manner fit for his age. He shuffled the weight of the case from one leg and back again.

It was 6:30 and Arthur was still not here.

* * *

><p>At eight, Jaques came to help him bathe. This was something Francis knew he wouldn't get out of, and so allowed the orderly to help bathe him, something he was usually against, with the sole intention of returning to his room as quickly as possible. If Jaques noticed anything off about his behaviour, such as his determination to be no longer than ten minutes, he didn't say anything and for that Francis was grateful but also a little concerned. Shouldn't staff be more attentive to patients' regular behaviours? Or was Jaques aware of what happened to his case and had decided not to give the game away in any way? Francis new he was over analysing things but he couldn't help himself and wouldn't relax until he was back in his room, teeth brushed as well, and had set his own eyes back on the case. He found upon his return that, although still scratched, it was otherwise untouched.<p>

He stayed in his room for the rest of the evening, refusing to leave his room or interact with other residents at all. For the most part, staff gave him odd looks but didn't question him too much.

It was half nine at night and Arthur was still not here.

Annette was getting him ready for bed, and handed him his brush so that he could look after his hair. Francis knew she disapproved of its length but that only made him more determined than ever to keep it in the style he'd always had and loved it. It made him feel as though he were still Francis and, although grey, he still loved it and cared for it as much as he always had. Regardless of what Arthur had told him, he was well aware he wasn't going bald, although certain thinning areas were making him worry.

On normal evenings, Francis would spend a short while doing his hair and then do anything he could to get ready quickly and get either Arthur or Annette out of his room so he could be left alone to sleep or read a bit if they were feeling generous, which was rare. Tonight, however, he wanted the company after spending the whole day alone, but more than that he really wanted to not be alone this night.

He knew that there were other residents were being put to bed and the night shift workers were yet to fully arrive, so the home was still buzzing with activity and noise. That, meant safety. The sooner things went quiet, the sooner Francis would find himself in danger.

After being dressed and taking his nightly medicine, Francis requested to be allowed to read for a bit. Annette huffed from where she was locking his windows shut. 'This is because you took that nap earlier and now you're not tired; I do hope you haven't undone all of the work that we've been doing.'

Francis gave her a thin smile. 'I do hope not.'

Despite being clearly annoyed at him, she did allow him to read until the full night shift had arrived and put him to bed, a notice she said she'd make sure to write on the staff board on her way out. As it was now ten, she was due to leave and bade him farewell before exiting and leaving his door ajar.

Francis lay back against the pillows, book in hand and listened to her footsteps disappearing down the corridor. Sighing, he placed the book on the bedside table and took a sip of water from the glass that was there. There was no point in him trying to read, he couldn't concentrate for long enough. Laying quietly, left comfortably upright, he listened to the sounds of the home for a while. He could hear cars driving off and the soft rustle of the wind in the trees, as well as the soft footfalls of the night staff and the swift dance of the hall light as they passed by his door.

It was quarter to eleven, and Arthur was _still _not here. From Calais to Aunis, there was at least a seven hour drive but even if he'd left at two, Arthur should have at least been here by now. All things considered, at the moment Francis was oddly relaxed, perhaps owing to his accomplishment at watching over the case successfully for the rest of the day, but that changed abruptly when Jean stuck his head around the door.

'Francis!' He greeted him cheerily and moved fully into the room. 'Annette has been lamenting that you've ruined all of her hard work, if it's true I'm going to have to congratulate you.'

Francis grinned. 'I may have had a nap earlier; apparently that ruined my sleep.'

Jean laughed softly and rested a hand on his hip. 'Well, the note she left me hinted at a far more diabolical action, but you succeeded in annoying her anyway, so congrats.'

He leant down to the cord by the bed and began to tilt Francis downwards, but was stopped by Francis holding onto his arm. 'Could you leave me slightly up? My chest is a bit tight tonight.'

Jean raised an eyebrow but complied, leaving the bed tilted lower than before but high enough so that Francis could stare straight at the window without raising his head.

'Tight as in, "I should be worried" tight, or tight as in, "hey it's one of those things" tight?'

Francis was quick to reassure him. 'Nothing serious, this is just more comfortable for tonight it seems.'

Jean clapped his hands together before rubbing them. 'Okay then, I hope you've enjoyed your late night entertainment, but if I don't make you go to bed now Annette will hang me out to dry come morning.' With that he grinned, and turned off the light before shutting the door as Francis responded with a farewell.

Terror made itself known in his stomach with the click of the door. He strained his ear to listen for sounds; everything amplified and exaggerated by his concentration. Jean's footsteps receded, and then there was nothing save for the wind in the trees and the sound of his own rigidly controlled breathing. Even though the danger was still there when left alone with a carer, it grew exuberantly once alone, he couldn't even be distracted by chatter or by night time activities; now he had nothing to focus on but his own situation and how it grew worse the quieter and later the night became.

He managed to stay awake for half an hour just by waiting; adrenaline pumped by his heart fast throughout his body kept him expecting something to happen at any moment, for a hand to appear on the window, for a footfall to stop outside his door, for the rustle of the bushes outside his window as they were disturbed, anything that would mean he needed to attract help; if there was help to be had with the people present that is.

Slowly and against his will, his hands began to relax from where they gripped the bars on either side of his bed and his breathing steadied before merging into deep, even breaths. He tried to keep himself awake by remembering the fear he felt earlier and about how important it apparently was that his case remained safe. Despite his best effort, he found his eyes growing gradually heavier, and the last thing he remembered seeing was the chink in the curtains filtering in a smidgen of moonlight.

* * *

><p>'<em>I know you're lying! I know that you know what's inside, I saw you! This is a possible threat to our nation; why do you not care? How DARE you lie, and think that you can trick me!'<em>

_The man plunged his hand into his pocket and whipped out a gun before Francis even had time to react. He threw away the case; throwing it to safety away from the shot before a sharp bang filled his ears and his senses overloaded with the pressure and pain that rocketed through his chest, burning into his heart. The ceiling swung as he fell backwards, and he fought to keep the air in his lungs as his back cracked against the floor. His vision went black and he remembered nothing else._

* * *

><p>Francis awoke to a crash of glass.<p>

Snapping his eyes open and jerking his head up, he briefly saw a black shape lunge towards him, leather gloves holding a pillow taught between them. Something slammed into his face and his brain registered the lack of air intake before his lungs even had the chance to begin to burn. Terror overloaded his entire system; he kicked and bucked as widely as he could but a black mist was drifting inwards from the edges of his vision as his hands tried to frantically claw a way to intake fresh air.

Eventually his limbs grew too sluggish and uncooperative and his lungs felt as though they were on fire; he thought of the case and then Francis Bonnefoy thought no more.

* * *

><p><span><strong>AN:<strong>

Hello again! Thank you very much for reading, I hope the pace is picking up a bit! Thank you to those who are sticking with me, and welcome to those of you who are new! Please drop me a review just to let me know what you though or of any improvement s you can think of, I personally feel my pacing is a little off but I'd love to know if you can give me any other improvement; any critique helps!

See you soon,

AHWH


	4. Paranoia Builds Distrust

Paranoia Builds Distrust_  
><em>

_One of Francis's first memories was from a time when he was really young, maybe about five or six years old, when his parents had taken him for a day trip to the beach nearest their house in __Archiac.__ He must have been to a beach before this experience because he does not remember being at all surprised by the sand between his toes and nor does he remember being scared of the waves as they grew and receded from the shoreline. He was, however, still fascinated by the water itself and the way it seemed to pull and push against the sand, in a steady and constant rhythm with a body that seemed so large that Francis easily believed that this was the edge of the world, for there was nothing to see beyond the horizon but water. He remembers staring out at the water for a long moment, watching the glint of the water and enjoying the smell of the sea whilst waiting for his dad to come back with ice creams, before he became aware that he was being watched. _

_He remembers freezing; locking himself still as his muscles froze against his will and his ears muted his surroundings. Humans still have an innate ability, left over from far more dangerous days, of sensing another's gaze on them. Evil intentions or no, people are intrinsically able to sense, most of the time, that they are being studied and this goes hand in hand with the feeling that something is not quite right. No matter the age, the personality or the circumstances, the creeping feeling that something is wrong is always the same; everything seems to sharpen and focus as the senses strain to single out the location or reason for the trigger. Adults are good at ignoring this instinct as they use their past experiences to dismiss the gut-feeling, knowing that sometimes the mind jumps to irrational conclusions, bypassing often accurate instinct for cultural logic._

_Children, fortunately, are not born with this logic. Francis therefore knew that someone potentially unfriendly was nearby and knew that this particular potentially unfriendly person was staring at him. Gingerly, he turned his head to scan the beach but found no one who stood out; no one with their eyes trained his way and no one lurking menacingly in the clumps of parents and children near him. Yet the feeling remained and he started to grow scared and anxious. Then, as swiftly as it appeared, the spell was broken by his father appearing with the ice-creams; the world crashed back into real time, background noise returned and Francis quickly concentrated on his new ,cold and melting priority. Francis switched focus quickly, as all children do, as his need changed and the day continued happily. Yet throughout his life, for some reason, Francis was never able to forget the memory entirely and as time subdued and blurred facts, faces and details of most snippets of random everyday life those 5 seconds remained crystal clear._

* * *

><p>The first thing Francis became aware of was that he was moving. Within milliseconds after realising this, his lungs remembered their trauma and he gave a great gasp, throwing his head back against something and hands lurching to scrabble for his face.<p>

'_Jesus fucking Christ!' _The movement swerved sharply, with it his head lolling uselessly left, before stabilising again but Francis could register little else; his eyes hadn't yet wrestled back control and remained screwed tightly shut with panic pounding through him.

'Francis! Francis for fuck's sake, breathe! Can you hear me? Deep breath in for me. _Shit_.'

Absentmindedly, Francis realised it was Arthur speaking and after a few harsh, desperate breaths in, he was calm enough to open his eyes and slump forward slightly and tucking his chin into his chest. He was now aware that he was in a car, his face hurt and it was no longer night-time but early morning; the light was dim and blue but enough for him to see that he was being driven along a motorway, once he had the presence of mind to glance up again.

'Are you alright now?' Arthur's voice came, surprisingly, from his right.

'What the hell happened.' He managed to croak out, ignoring the question and glancing over at Arthur.

The Englishman had his mouth pulled into a thin tense line and hesitated a bit before answering. 'Well, for one I told you to guard the damn case.' He shook his head. 'I didn't realise falling asleep was another denotation of 'guard', but when you look at French military history it makes a bit more sen-.'

'Arthur I'm being serious!' Francis voice couldn't get much higher than a croak and the louder he tried to go the more he sounded like a half deflated balloon being sat on.

'I'm sorry, I'm-,' Arthur sighed and slumped his shoulders, 'I'm just cross with myself.'

'Why? What have you done?' Francis tried to catch Arthur's eye but his gaze was fixed straight ahead, unmoving.

Arthur gave a small, humourless laugh as a response. 'It's not so much what I did; it's what I failed to do.' He took one hand from the wheel and gave it a slight wave as it to bat away the conversation. 'Anyway, what do you remember?'

'I sat in my room all day after I rang you; I stayed awake until at least half 11, I think.' Francis brought a hand to his face and gingerly began to explore the damage. His nose, whilst very tender, thankfully wasn't broken. Although it hurt to take breathe too deeply and his face was a bit bruised, he was otherwise unharmed. 'The last thing I remember is being woken by the sound of a crash, like a window, and someone smothering me with a pillow.'

Out of the corner of his eye he saw Arthur give a slight nod. 'Yes, that's what I arrived to.'

Sudden irrational anger rose in Francis' chest. 'And where were you? You said you wouldn't be long but you were nearly three hours late! Do you have any idea how-,' even now, Francis' pride wouldn't let him admit that he was scared; a better word would be petrified, really, but Francis was even less likely to admit to that, 'how _on edge _you made me? Sitting there alone all day, paranoid about God knows what or who with nothing to go on other than "guard a God damn _case"_!?' His voice broke far too often for him to be happy but his previous terror gave him more volume than he thought he could produce.

Arthur scowled but still didn't turn to look at him, instead flicking his eyes upwards at the rear-view mirror and changing lanes, speeding them up slightly. 'Well I was right, wasn't it? It's not as though I warned you unnecessarily. And I _was_ getting there as fast as I could; I was caught in this huge traffic jam that brought us to a standstill for hours because this lorry had overturned and they had to shut the motorway.'

Francis felt a bubble of hysterical laughter rise up in his throat and escape from him in a quick burst before he could contain himself. 'Oh, well that's all right then, isn't it.'

He heard Arthur give a deep, long sigh through his nose as though trying to calm himself. 'Look I- Francis I got there as fast as I could and I'm sorry that I couldn't prevent you from being attacked but seeing as you're still breathing I don't think I did too bad a job, overall.' He gave a huff and allowed what could be interpreted as an expression of worry on his face before settling back into impassiveness.

A thick silence settled on the car while Francis' mind caught up with him.

He hated to, but Francis was the first to break it. 'Thank you, then. For coming and for saving me; I'm grateful.' Arthur, whilst being later than Francis was expecting, _did _turn up and _did_ save him from being murdered.

Instead of the furious downgrade of thanks or an insult on Francis' behalf to deflect the comment, Arthur remained stoically silent. His eyebrows moved and the skin around his eyes tightened to form a brief look of what seemed to be regret or denial and he opened his mouth slightly before closing it again, looking sad. A small pause. 'No problem.'

Silence fell between them and as much as Francis looked at him Arthur didn't take his eyes off the road or change expression, remaining melancholy and even slightly small; back leaning heavily in his chair rather than ram-rod straight and shoulders still slumped but tight. Astonishingly, he looked conflicted between guilty, of all things, and regretful; two things Francis couldn't ever imagine the proud and stubborn Arthur being.

Francis, ashamed and also guilty about his outburst and the effect that it had, waited for an Arthur he could recognise to return and produce the reaction he was looking for, but when it became apparent that none would be forthcoming he broke the silence again. 'So', he slid his eyes from the younger man to glance at the windshield. 'What you mind filling me in a bit more on happened after you arrived?'

Arthur said nothing straight away but changed gears as the traffic in front of them slowed and settled his hand on the gear stick, drumming fingers lightly on the top and seemingly trying to settle on the best way to answer. Eventually, he did and revealed that it was a night more full of odd occurrences than any other. For starters, there had been very little staff on duty.

'It was actually extremely easy to slip in;' Arthur had explained, 'I knew I had to be quiet and not make a fuss in case there was someone dangerous prowling about or it turned out to be a false alarm, but there wasn't much need; the corridors were basically deserted.' The security features had also been turned off and Arthur hadn't needed to use his door card or password to access the main gates or doors of the resident's building where Francis stayed.

'Of all the things, it was that which worries me the most.' The sun had risen slightly now as they travelled through the French main roads north; the sky was full of clouds promising rain but it was a bright one, allowing Francis, with his deteriorating eyesight, to see his companion more clearly. Arthur was dressed in jeans and a t-shirt; obviously grabbed and dressed in a hurry if his hair and general harried appearance were anything to go by. Although Francis realised a while ago that Arthur must be driving a British car for him to be in the driver's seat on the right hand side, it was still strange to think of the wheel of the car in a different place form what he was used to. 'It means that this wasn't an outside attack but someone inside who knows the buildings and security systems well; who or how many, though, God only knows.'

Francis was surprised about how much feeling this evoked from him; how _sad_ and betrayed this made him feel. Although he'd known that the most logical suspect would have to have been an employee of the home, he found he'd been hoping for someone or something to be a cause instead, anything for it not to be the people he spent so much time with and had grudgingly grown fond of.

Arthur had therefore, after arriving at around 2 and nearly five hours later than he'd expected, parked his car away and out of sight of security cameras behind some houses before the driveway and had walked his way casually to the main gate, before driving his car inside to the staff car park, which was located closer to the buildings, cautiously after finding it unlocked. Then he tried to sneak his way to the main doors, before breaking into a run upon finding them completely open and unprotected.

In one of the corridors, Arthur had hidden in a store cupboard after hearing footsteps. But, after seeing that it was the uniform of a residential orderly, he'd relaxed; thinking that perhaps the security systems or electricity had merely malfunctioned and someone had popped out to call an electrician; leaving the doors electronically open. Looking back, he blandly and in a voice detached from any emotion, told Francis that there was no doubt in his mind that one of this now former colleagues had something to do with the whole thing.

Thus, he ended up after a quick walk through the dimly lit corridors in Francis' room where he entered just in time to see someone masked slam the pillow, hastily grabbed from the foot of Francis' bed, into his face and attempt to smother him.

'What happened then?' Arthur had paused but opened his mouth as if to speak before shutting it closed again. He glanced at Francis, the first time Francis himself had seen him do so since he'd regained consciousness, and looked him dead in the eye before looking back to the road, almost as if he'd had to visibly judge whether he was ready for the answer. His face had looked controlled and calm, as though the stress and panic had completely wiped away the old Arthur and now allowed him to wear a mask of calm, determined rationality.

'I shot him.'

A mix of what felt like rage, fear and suspicion moved his tongue and formed the basis of Francis' next few words. 'Yo- _shot?! _You shot him? Dead?' These fears grew in intensity when Arthur allowed himself a small shrug of, in Francis' opinion, dismissal.

'There was nothing else I could do, Francis; he was attacking you and I couldn't jump him and try to restrain him in case he had accomplices and the noise alerted them. I'd brought a gun just in case there was real danger to protect myself and as soon as I saw what was going on I just did it; automatically.' Arthur was pressing his fingers hard on the steering wheel; a small, white knuckled gesture which served as the only other showing indication of his own fear at the time, the rest heavily hidden in a staunch deadlock. 'After that I just grabbed you and the case before running out to the car. We've been driving ever since.'

Francis found he was not all that shocked or frightened by Arthur having shot someone. On the contrary, he felt a quick surge of relief to know that not only were his fears of danger justified but that the person who had been causing them could no longer do so. He was instead afraid of how calm Arthur was being about the whole thing.

'Are- are they dead?'

Arthur worried his lip. 'I don't know. I didn't really think about my aim, I just,' he indicated with his head uselessly, 'did it. Maybe. I don't honestly know, it happened too fast.'

They sat in silence for a little while which allowed Francis to mull things over. Their situation, at the moment, seemed to be the worst it could be. There was not only the factor that Arthur may be wanted for possible murder, but there was also the matter that there could now be others wishing to do them both harm; their goal must have extended from 'grab the case and go', to kill both of them to silence them, especially seeing as they were willing to kill Francis in the first place even before all of this.

Suddenly, the relief of their momentary safety and worry over their immediate future was soon overridden by his mind latching on to what Arthur had just said.

The case.

_Arthur had also taken the case_.

It was enough that he was willing to come all the way back to Fouras from Calais just to ensure its safety, but for that to be something he focused on after having witnessed attempted murder and then committing the act himself meant that he too was either aware of the contents or at least the importance of the case. He must be, somehow, involved as well.

All at once, Francis' mind went blank as he struggled to make sense of this and try to figure out where this put him. If Arthur was also involved, did this not mean that Francis was still in danger? Terror momentarily stalled his thoughts but one glance at Arthur calmed him slightly.

Arthur had saved not only the case from being stolen but Francis from being murdered, meaning that surely Arthur was on his side; he wouldn't hurt him now. If he wished him harm then he could have left him there. But if people were willing to kill over this thing then no matter whose side Francis was on, he was certainly going to be in danger. As for Arthur himself, he could indeed have only saved Francis as an automatic response, or because Francis knew too much, but he'd worked at the home for more than a year; if he wanted to steal it surely he would have done so previously.

Arthur had noticed him glancing at him and raised an eyebrow, looking his way. 'Francis?' His voice pulled Francis out of the swirling monologue his mind was creating for him.

He let out a deep, soul weary sigh and resigned himself to his situation. No matter what, this is where he was now and he was going to have to accept it. But that didn't mean he had to accept it _quietly_. 'Arthur, what the hell is going on here?'

Arthur frowned and glanced at him again out the corner of his eye.

'Please,' Francis heard the desperation leaking into his voice and tried to rein it in a bit, 'please don't lie to me, just tell me what's going on. What the hell is in that case? And what the hell does it have to do with me?'

'Francis I promise,' Arthur's voice was serious and level, body language calm and controlled and completely different from what it was minutes earlier, 'I promise that you are in no danger with me and that I will explain everything else as soon as we can get to somewhere safe.' He held up a finger as Francis opened his mouth to protest, 'not because I'm trying to put off telling you, but because it's a long story that will a lot easier to tell you when we're both sitting down and when I'm not trying to flee the country and get through customs with a captured OAP in my car. Fair?'

Francis considered his options and crossed his arms before folding his body away; looking out the window at the passing open fields. 'I suppose I have no choice, do I?'

Arthur hummed and the corner of his mouth twitched, 'No, not really.'

* * *

><p><em>For just a second, the floor felt cold and solid against Francis' back.<em>

_His vision was gone but the smell of blood was strong and it overpowered his nose, however the only thing he could focus on was the panic fluttering in his heart; panic not for himself but for something else. _

_His arms twitched once._

_It was safe. It was safe and that was more important._

_He died almost instantly._

* * *

><p>Francis only managed to nap for what must have been only a few moments when he jolted awake again, brain quickly switching to the present.<p>

The rest of the ride, for the most part, had continued in silence with just the radio playing quietly for background noise. They were heading towards the north, into England, at a pace just under the speed limit in order to appear as casual and unsuspicious as possible to avoid alerting the authorities. Arthur had decided that the safest place for them both to go was out of the country; as the security systems were down in the home, like the door lock, and it was mostly deserted; there was a high chance the CCTV cameras also weren't working. This also meant that Arthur himself may not have been seen by anyone and may be able to avoid blame for what had happened, or at least not be suspected by Francis' attackers.

As he explained to Francis, if this was orchestrated by someone from within the home then they probably would have turned all systems off to protect themselves from being caught. In the same way, this luckily also protected Arthur if it were true. Even if he had been seen by someone there that night, it was probably by someone in connection to Francis' attempted murder and therefore not someone who would be willing to go running to the police anytime soon. Therefore, maybe there was a chance they could escape from this mess, for a while at least.

This obviously left leaving a lot to chance, so they were bypassing Arthur's home in Calais and were heading to his family's holiday home in the south of England in the hope that if Arthur was seen and reported, the authorities in France wouldn't be alerted they wouldn't be followed in time to stop him getting out and to relative safety. Francis had pointed out that there was always the high possibility of the British authorities getting involved as well, but although Arthur disagreed, he refused to elaborate further. Thus, they were now aiming to get to the port of Calais before the French police were alerted on the off chance that Arthur was right.

Despite attempting to flee the country, however, they were trying to be as inconspicuous as possible, which meant that Arthur was driving them at what felt like a dangerously constant and slow speed for two people fleeing a murder scene.

The good thing was that staying at a constant speed meant that they didn't look very suspicious. Arthur's car, a ten year old ford, was of a medium size; nothing flashy or expensive looking and not too modern but not too old looking either. Silvery in colour it also didn't catch the eye and there weren't any remarkable features to name. Their constant speed didn't indicate panic and staying just below the speed limit allowed them to any bypass random stop checks they may have come across or not alert the speed cameras planted along the roads but still allowed them to move through France at a nice time, and their speed consistency meant that the car ate fuel slower than it would have done if Arthur had had his foot pressed to the floor.

The bad thing about driving at a constant speed meant that eventually the car was going to run out of petrol and so probably was Arthur before they got very far at all.

He had, after all, taken time off for being unable to get enough rest in the first place; that combined with the fact that, now that it was nearing 6 he'd driven for around 15 hours going up and down France meant that, despite his stubborn protests, Arthur was going to have to stop somewhere before they got to England or else there was going to be a very messy ending to their pathetic excuse for an escape attempt. The car starting to choke and die on them was the only way Francis won the argument.

The issue was, Arthur really didn't want to stop and it was only after Francis had briefly drifted off himself that he realised that this may be a major issue. Blinking away the tiredness resting heavy in his eyes, Francis' attention was caught by a flashing on the dashboard.

'The light's flashing.'

'I'm _aware, _Francis.' Arthur spoke through gritted teeth.

'Well, I thought you mayn't know, considering you seem to be ignoring it.'

'I'm looking for the right place to pull ove-'

'We're in the middle of the god forsaken countryside! Your options are limited, rosbif!'

'I wanted a service off the motorway! If we're going to stop somewhere at least it'll be somewhere out of sight!'

'Out of sight?' Francis gave a loud, condescending snap of laughter and stretched his arms in front of him, trying to loosen his stiff joints. 'Sorry cher but now it's the morning and mid week, everywhere you go they'll be people or cameras. Just do it and get it over with; all we need to do is fill the tank and swap drivers-'

'No! We are NOT swapping drivers.' Arthur was scowling, eyebrows drawn low over his eyes which were occasionally glancing up at passing signs for an indication of a service stop nearby. 'Francis, you can barely _see_.'

'Well if you're not going to stop and rest somewhere then you're just as likely to crash as I am.'

'For the last damn time, Francis,' Arthur run his hand through his hair in frustration, 'I do not need to stop, I'll be fine but if we can get some caffeine I'll be even better. We're over half way. Once we get through customs it'll be _a_ _doddle_. _But oh, how much I liked you better unconscious. _'

As always, Francis was irritated by both the use of English and his inability to understand it. Regardless, he could sense Arthur probably hadn't complimented him and chose to respond accordingly. Before the argument could escalate further, however, Arthur gave a quick cry of surprise.

'There's a service station on the next turn off! And thank God, it serves coffee.'

Francis hadn't even seen the sign initially and when he looked it all amassed into a smear of colours. Unwilling to concede, even to himself, that Arthur was right about him being completely unfit to drive, Francis sat up a little more straight and started straightening his night shirt.

He could feel Arthur's gaze on him. 'What are you doing?'

Francis tsked and stiffly folded his collar the right way up. 'No matter how you act or make this seem I'm still a near ninety year old man dressed in bedclothes in the middle of the day in a petrol station abandoned in a field. Maybe in England this could pass for usual but in France this is not an everyday occurrence.'

Arthur said nothing and Francis began considering his trousers. 'Do you think these would pass off as unassuming?'

Arthur indicated right and pulled into the inside lane. 'The trousers, luckily, are a dark blue; from a distance hopefully no one will notice how light they are and your age will help answer the most obvious questions.'

Francis took the time to feel slightly offended.

'Speaking of light; aren't you cold?' Arthur reached out a hand to press it on Francis' arm, but Francis drew back. 'I'm fine in here; it's outside we'll have to worry about.'

'True...' Arthur nodded and left him alone, taking the time to observe Francis' top.

'The shirt though...' Arthur tapped a finger on the wheel, 'the fact that it's the same colour makes it obvious. We're more likely to find something to cover your top half than bottom so I say we try to find you a jumper or something; maybe this place sells clothes?'

Francis thought this highly unlikely but he had a more pressing concern. 'Mon cher, the thing you're forgetting is that I have no shoes on. No matter how you dress me, no shoes will be noticed, especially if we make it to the ferry.'

Arthur winced and glanced quickly at Francis' bare feet, before cursing under his breath in English and indicated again; ready to pull into the service station. 'There's nothing much we can do; I'm just going to have to see what they sell. Not only that though, if we don't get to the UK soon your face will start to bruise where he's pushed hard on your cheekbones or nose; clothes we can try to hide but bruises will get us instantly called on. We'll be so damn lucky if we even see the water, let alone cross it.'

* * *

><p>The service station was quiet, but not completely deserted. Cars were dotted about the car parks, either close to the shop or closer to the toilets and a mini Starbucks at the other end. A little road pulled off to the left leading to a petrol station, and this is where Arthur drove them first before then nosing the car about into the shopping area. Whilst he was paying in each, Francis tried his best to look calm and casual, as well as inconspicuous as he possibly could to avoid gaining unwanted attention. Thankfully he managed to remain ignored by everyone and was successfully un-harassed by the time Arthur returned with his purchases.<p>

'We must be on a tourist route,' he said, quickly dumping two shopping bags into the back of the car, 'lucky for us, really; they not only sold clothes but it didn't feel out of place for me to buy them.' Before Francis could say anything in response, he was leaving again. He came back next from behind the car; hair slightly damp from presumably washing his face in the toilets' sink and carrying a disposable cup of what smelt like coffee. The cup he passed to Francis before dropping himself into the driver's seat and starting the engine, putting the car in gear and pulling away from the car park, around and up the slip road. From there they entered onto the motorway again and once they were driving straight at a comfortable speed he took the cup back from Francis and took small sip, wincing as the heat scalded his tongue.

'Serves you right for not getting me any.'

Arthur pressed his burnt tongue tip across his front top teeth. 'We both know that you're not allowed caffeine.'

Francis tutted. 'We're hardly living by Julia's rules now, are we?'

Arthur managed to work the lid off with one hand still on the wheel and blew on his drink. 'Doesn't matter, if you start seeing toilets for you to use every 15 minutes then I'll let you have some. Until then, you're going to have to go without.' He blew a few more times before taking a long drink and sighing. 'Good Lord, I needed that.'

Francis made a noise of agreement. 'You certainly needed it if Starbucks coffee is anything close to drinkable.'

Arthur gave a short laugh and took another drink. 'Black coffee tastes terrible regardless of where it's from.'

Francis sniffed disdainfully. 'Careful, mon cher, your uncultured side is showing.'

Arthur grinned, 'Hmm, 2 years of no caffeine at all must really be hurting you.'

Francis said nothing and gave him the cold shoulder, turning to gaze out his window at the flat, northern French countryside. It was becoming apparent that they were heading closer to Calais now.

After nearly ten minutes of driving at the speed limit, Arthur pulled off another slip road and placed them in a country lane, where he finally pulled over.

'And we are here because...?' Francis watched Arthur with a seed of envy as he unclipped his seatbelt and stretched himself easily around his headrest to reach for the bags in the back seat.

'Well,' Arthur grabbed the bags and dumped them in Francis' lap before opening his door to get out, 'I didn't exactly want to dress you in the car park, and I thought it'd be a bit suspicious to take you to the toilets looking like that.'

Francis had to admit that it made the most sense. 'So,' Arthur continued, opening Francis' door, 'I'm afraid you're going to have to deal with getting dressed in a field. I was looking for a toilet on its own somewhere to change but I think changing out here is probably better.'

Francis wasn't really listening anymore; instead he gave an indignant cry as he reached into the carrier bag to examine his new wardrobe. 'You drove us here because you knew I would make you take this back, you _heinous_ man!' He lifted out a bright orange tee-shirt adorned with a sunglasses clad yellow sun, undisguised horror on every part of his face. 'I can't wear this! I'm supposed to be inconspicuous, you uncultured _idiot; _why on _earth_ did you think that this monstrosity would be of any use?!_'_

Arthur, the giant _child_, looked as though he was trying very hard, but ultimately failing miserably, to contain a smirk. 'I'm afraid that there was nothing else; you had the choice of a pink one with a bucket, spade and a large orange crab, a lovely light blue one that said '_young, fun, and ready for sun!' _or a bottle green one with a sun lounger and a pool.' He gave a laugh disguised as a cough; when he next spoke his voice was tight, as though he was trying not to burst out laughing. 'I looked for a frog one but sadly they were lacking. The tourist track we're on is obviously one used by beach goers.'

Francis looked up to shoot him a look of complete and utter disgust which prompted Arthur to attempt to pacify him. 'Oh come on now Francis, if anything, now you just look a cheerful granddad going on holiday.'

Francis dropped the shirt back in the bag with a great show of distain. 'How perfect.' Further inspection of its contents revealed some socks, some over-the-toe sandals, (the two combined convinced Francis finally that Arthur had actually gone out of this way to make Francis look the most hideous he possible could), some fruit bars and a few water bottles. The second bag contained a large, floppy hat and some sunglasses ('to hide the bruising whilst it's developing' supplied Arthur) some painkillers, a neck pillow Francis was actually rather grateful for, and a small, bagged raincoat which, from far away enough, could pass for the same colour as his pyjama trousers. Francis gave a deep sigh through his nose. At least he could cover up the shirt with the coat on the boat. 'You are never to go shopping for me again.'

Arthur huffed and crossed his arms. 'Gladly. Though I think I did quite well with a shop full of bobbing dogs and palm trees. Not to mention the lack of any other shops in the middle of the country side; you'd think the government would be more considerate to runaway OAPs really.'

Francis snarled and threw the sandals at Arthur, which he sadly caught. 'Just get this over with.'

Arthur flashed him a cheerful, yet malicious looking smile. 'Of course.' He piled all of the clothes out of the bags and onto Francis' lap and, after emptying the dregs on the floor, scrunched up his coffee cup from earlier and placed it inside. Francis resisted the urge to cause hassle and tip the clothes on top of the coffee puddle and dirt, but _mon dieu_ how he wanted to.

Instead, he voiced a worry he had been pondering over for a while. 'I know that I have been away from the world of independent travel for a while now, but in my day one had to book to get on ferries across the _La Manche._' Francis eyes him as Arthur leant down to undo his buttons.

'Hopefully it's sorted.'

'Hopefully?'

Arthur nodded and helped his arms out of the sleeves. 'My brother was visiting me yesterday and I asked him to book my car in on one before I left. He messaged me a few hours ago to say that he found us room on one departing at 11: 15 so we should get there in enough time; we've only got three more hours to go, if the traffic remains as good as this.'

Frustratingly, the top Arthur bought, while baggy, didn't have buttons. Francis' arms were stiff, more so after two years of relative inactivity with anything strenuous and the conversation stalled whilst Arthur fought to redress Francis as gently as was possible.

Finally, the top was on and Francis rolled his sore shoulders as much as he could to ease the pain and Arthur moved onto the job of putting on his socks. 'You know, regardless of whether or not there was any danger, I was planning on taking you out of the home anyway.'

Francis' comment about his shoulders died in his throat and Arthur looked up at him. 'Again, something I will explain in full once we're safe. I knew it may possibly be getting to be too dangerous there so thought I was planning ahead,' he moved onto the other sock and after that slipped the sandals on, 'little did I know how late I'd left it.'

Ignoring Francis' shocked gaze, Arthur advised him to try standing to stretch his legs for a bit; they'd been driving for a while and Arthur was growing concerned with how stiff he was starting to get. He helped him out the car and held onto his arm whilst Francis got his balance and collected his thoughts enough to form his own part of the conversation. 'How late you'd left it? _Mon cher,_ this has been going on for only about a week! _Non_? Or is there more that you're not telling me?'

Arthur frowned, 'A few days? What on earth do you mean...why on earth didn't you say that you knew something was going on earlier?'

'Me?' Francis cried incredulously as he stepped away from Arthur a few paces. 'How about you? You knew something was going to happen and you let it? What the hell is wrong with you?!'

Arthur held up a hand, 'Hey wait a minute! I only had suspicions; I didn't see anything solid enough to warrant action but just enough for me to know I wanted you out of there. I never thought anything would actually _happen_-'

'So you left me there anyway, to chance?'

Arthur shook his head and looked angry, 'No! God Francis-' he run his hands through his hair and rubbed his eyes, 'God this is becoming ridiculous; you should have told me.'

Francis walked a few more paces away from the Englishman and felt the crisp morning wind ruffle his new shirt as he stepped out of the car's protective barrier. 'And tell you what? That my case may have moved forward slightly? That my ornaments looked as though they had been pushed aside? That nothing was touched or taken but I felt as though my room and been rifled through?' Francis gave a dry laugh. 'You'd just started me on new pills, _lapin,_ that and I'd been having trouble sleeping, also with night terrors. How was I to know you would even listen to me? What would have been the chance you'd have believed me? How was I to know that there was even something going on at all?'

Francis turned to look behind for Arthur, who had propped himself with his back against the car and was regarding his shuffling with crossed arms. 'Quite high actually, I kept getting the strange feeling there was someone watching you; when you were alone on the bench not too many days ago I thought I saw someone in the bushes.'

Arthur worried his lip and scowled before continuing. 'I also kept seeing someone out of the corner of my eye, but never long enough for me to say there was something defiantly there. I've also not been sleeping so I could have been imagining things; but this is what I was there for, Francis, to watch for that sort of thing. I _knew_ someone was wrong but blamed my suspicions on lack of sleep or caused by the tedium of the home and, rather than investigate, I hoped it would go away.' He gave a dry laugh and straightened up.

He looked over to where Francis stood and considered him for a moment before giving a nod. 'But I'm sorry; you weren't to know any of that. Why on earth would you have told me anything anyway?' He looked away quickly but not before Francis caught a strange look in his eyes.

'Come on, let's get going. We've got a way to go yet.'

Having no wiser option to go for, Francis walked back towards him and allowed himself to be helped into the car.

* * *

><p>They stopped only once more. After yawning more than three times within two minutes Francis had finally had enough and had continued with his badgering.<p>

'Arthur, you look worse than I do, and that's including the bags under my eyes.'

Arthur huffed, 'cheers.'

Francis slapped him on the shoulder and Arthur gave a small yelp of surprise. 'I mean it, you're nearing 16 hours stuck in a car now and I've just survived one brush with death, I don't really want to chance my luck with another.'

'I'm not going to _crash,_ for fuck sake.'

Francis narrowed his eyes, mentally acknowledging the fact that Arthur seemed to swear a lot more often now than he ever had done before. 'Your driving is bad enough; tiredness is only making it worse the longer we've been going on.'

'My driving isn't bad!' Arthur retorted, sounding offended, 'I'll have you know that I have no points at all on my- don't shrug at me!'

Francis raised a still well maintained eyebrow. 'I really don't care, you either find somewhere now or I'll find some way to attract attention.'

For a moment their locked and Arthur seriously considered whether or not Francis was bluffing. He broke the standoff first though by placing his attention back on the road.

'I'm not going to a hotel, Francis.'

'I cannot believe you're being this stubborn-' he was broken off by Arthur trying to smother another yawn. 'Arthur! _Mon dieu_, pull over now, just sleep in the car by the side of the road it if you insist; it doesn't matter.'

'Fine! Fine, let me just look for something, but I'm only doing this to stop you from whingeing.'

Silence fell between them for a mile or so as Arthur skimmed the road for a slip road or another service station which mean he could stop somewhere. Eventually, after coming off a slip road and then down a small B road, he found a small turn off with a block of toilets and a small park which allowed him to park up.*

He stopped the car before putting it in neutral before leaning back against the headrest and rubbed his eyes. Francis silently thought to himself that Arthur probably didn't want to let on how tired he was feeling in order to get them out of France faster, but they were just under two hours away from Calais and four-ish hours until their ferry; they could afford to stop and rest for a while.

Smiling smugly, proud of himself for winning this particular argument regardless of what Arthur said, Francis passed him a bottle of water which was taken with a glare.

'Shut up.'

'I didn't say anything.'

'Shut up.'

Francis grinned wider.

Arthur shook his head and gulped down some water before passing the bottle back to Francis and getting out of the car only to get in again in the back. Shutting the door behind him he laid himself curled up on the back seats and unfolded Francis' new raincoat to drape over his torso as a make-do blanket. 'Pass us your neck pillow?'

'But I'm using it.'

Arthur propped himself higher up on one arm. 'You need to keep watch; you don't need it.'

With a grumble, he conceded and twisted as far as he could go to give it to Arthur who took it quickly before laying his head down, giving an audible sigh of relief as he shut his eyes.

Francis grinned again.

'Shut up.'

'I didn't say anything, _cher.'_

'I can feel you gloating.'

Arthur rolled onto his side and cracked open and eye to stare at Francis. 'Keep an eye out and wake me in an hour.'

'An hour?'

Arthur shut his eye and nodded. 'It'll give us about an hour and a half to play with in case of traffic.'

Francis huffed and turned back to look out of the windows. 'We don't need that much time, you're being overly cautious.'

After a while of silence and no argumentative response Francis glanced in the rear-view mirror to see that Arthur had quickly fallen fast asleep; breaths deep and even and face finally relaxed. He hadn't realised how strained he'd been looking recently until he compared it to when he was unconscious.

Already sure that he wasn't going to wake Arthur up before at least an hour and a half had passed, Francis settled further down in his seat and trained his eyes on the road in the wing mirrors and front windows.

* * *

><p><span><strong>AN:<strong> Why, hello! Yes, I am still alive! This chapter took so long because there's so much important stuff to write but in a very boring and unexciting location. Capturing the scene itself and the characters' emotions was also quite hard; the two combined together meant that this whole thing took ages just to produce even a few lines at a time sometimes. I also had a dissertation of 10,000 words to write and research for my final year at uni, so the thought of writing this before such an important essay made me guilty enough to do some real work and not get distracted. So, I'm sorry for the relative dullness.

But! I did manage to write it in the end and I wrote so much that I've actually had to break it into two chapters where the most exciting part happens in the next chapter. Please stick around and trust me!

As always, thanks very much for reading! Please let me know what you think,

Heroes

*These places do exist, I stopped at many during a drive through France when I was younger. The ones with parks were always the best, but usually they were just a car park, a few benches with tables and a building for the toilets. We don't really have them in England; here they're usually accompanied by a petrol station with a shop or shopping centre and some even have huge food courst with KFC, Costa and other such glorious places, rather than just a toilet.


	5. Your Life is Never Truly Your Own

Your Life is Never Truly Your Own

_He was wet and cold; he felt as though he'd never been this cold before, even though he knew it probably wasn't true. He could feel the bone biting chill seep right into his bones and trickle down to settle into his very soul so that he felt numb all over; a tin man made of leaden limbs who couldn't remember ever feeling the warmth of the sun. He turned his head automatically at the approaching sound of the squelching mud that alerted him of someone coming closer, and was met by another man slightly taller than he, who stood next to him brushing his shoulder with his bit-too-big-coat. _

_It had fit him once._

_He felt the mud trapped in his boots sift between his toes as he shifted weight from one foot to another and turned his gaze forwards again, across desolate, murky fields._

_The lighting was so dim, and encompassed so much, that he could hardly make out the other's features when he had glanced at him, but could see the sorry state of his long hair shrouding tired eyes and it saddened him. 'How can you all do this so much?' The other asked in a quiet whisper, as if he is afraid to break the silence._

_His French has an accent Francis can't place. 'Ah, but that's the thing,' the words are dragged out of his lips slowly and in one, long breath; he scarcely has the energy to breathe anymore, 'this is something completely new.'_

_The other man joins him in silence again and together they survey the pot-holed field before them, peering over a wall of packed earth._

_Silence covers the land like a thick and restricting blanket but they both know better than to take it for granted; Francis' ears still ring with guns and his hands shake from something worse than cold._

_The top of the sun scrapes the horizon and a small brush of light graces the clouds to cause Francis' heart to quicken and a weight lifts as he focuses on the pale glow and the normalcy of the whole thing. It lasts but a few minutes; soon shouts call alerts._

_They break apart and move onward._

* * *

><p>Francis woke up when the car stopped. They'd been driving almost continuously since Arthur's nap and they'd progressed with the rest of their journey uninterrupted, allowing Francis to doze off again on his reclaimed neck pillow.<p>

'Are we there?' He groggily lifted his head from where it was rested, pillow slung around his shoulders. His chest felt terribly tight and he shifted about, trying to ease the pressure.

Arthur must have noticed because an arm slipped around his back and helped him right himself. 'If by there, you mean Calais.' Arthur helped Francis sit up more and the minimal relief it gave his lungs was a comfort nonetheless. Francis looked about to see that they were parked in a queue of cars, waiting for their turn to board the ferry. 'Customs?'

Arthur gave a derisive laugh that denoted previous bad experiences. 'We've got to go there in a bit. Or, I will, in any case; I'll try to bring someone out to you.'

Francis bristled. 'I can _walk_ you know.'

Arthur propped his elbow on the window of his door and rested his head on his hand. 'You can indeed; then if you're up to it we'll go together.'

Francis slipped the pillow from around his neck and smoothed down his hair. 'I need to stretch my legs anyway; I'm going to have to get out and be near people soon on the boat.'

Arthur looked at the clock on the dashboard. 'We're an hour early; we've got lots of time so we can always go for a short walk now. There'll be more security checks in Dover that will be more thorough anyway; all we have to do here is the metal detector, a quick passport check, and a car search so we can relax a bit.' Despite his anger at being woken up later than he'd wanted, they'd apparently still made it with plenty of time to spare and Francis tried not to look too proud that his risk of a better rested Arthur had paid off.

Arthur put on a serious expression and went quiet for a few moments, one thumb massaging his temple. 'There was a news announcement about us whilst you were asleep.'

Francis felt as though a large amount of freezing cold water had just washed through his stomach. 'And? What did they say?'

Arthur signed through his nose and tipped his head back to rest on his headrest. 'Luckily, I wasn't mentioned. Yet.' he added, eyes focused upwards and staring at the sky through the windscreen. 'They only mentioned that a residential home in Fouras had been broken into and that one of the residents was now missing. The person who tried to kill you wasn't mentioned; dead or otherwise. Police are now searching for any leads and are encouraging members of the public to come forward with more information.'

Francis stared at his fingers which had unconsciously began to grip the material bunched around his knees.

'If he were dead, the body must have been moved and the evidence cleared away before the police got there. If he's alive, then there's no mention of blood or a shooting. There wasn't even a description of me given out at all,' Arthur continued, 'so we can safely say that the cameras were off and that it was most defiantly another care worker who had planned the attack; no one else would know the systems or have been able to cover their tracks that well. If I was seen by a worker, they've proven their guilt by not speaking to the police; the whole shift that night could have been involved for all we know.'

'Or,' Francis found himself speaking in a voice that sounded far too small to be his own, 'maybe no one saw you at all and the cameras were turned off by someone outside who had been spying on the system's pass codes. Maybe the body wasn't mentioned because the police don't wish to worry the public. The whole thing could have been planned by someone from outside who's been observing the security.' He gave a small jump as he felt a hand settle on his shoulder, which then gripped his shoulder in a comforting squeeze. He looked up to find Arthur looking at him; a sad expression settled in his eyes.

'I'm sorry, Francis.'

Francis felt the small part of him, which he hadn't realised was still there, the part that somehow had remained hopeful and trusting and unwilling to believe that the people he cared about and had lived with, melt away. He gave a shaky breath out and focused back on his fingers and entwined them together in a grip, trying not to let his watery eyes spill over.

Arthur rubbed his back and said nothing.

* * *

><p>They finally arrived in England after an hour and a half on the ferry; arriving in Dover at 12:45, before then driving for a further three and a half hours to reach Arthur's house in the middle of the Kent countryside. There wasn't much English ground for them to cover, but the small and narrow country lanes kept slowing them down and Arthur had to drive at what felt like a crawl to get there.<p>

They had got through okay on the French customs. There was a small issue of Francis not having a passport, but for reasons Francis couldn't figure out Arthur managed to wangle their way through without it. Whilst they went to have their passports verified, Arthur left him momentarily on a bench to talk to a guard and was led away for a little while before returning triumphant but mum. To make matter easier for them both as well, they stayed inside the boat, not venturing to the upper decks, and on the closest floor they could to the car level. There were fewer fellow passengers there and they could get from and to their car quickly if need be, but despite being stared at, Francis' wardrobe didn't gain any direct questions and they were left alone.

They sat huddled together on some chairs by a window and talked as they watched the sea go by. On tatty chairs stained with years of sticky little fingers, lost chewing gum and spilt drinks, Francis found out more about Arthur than he had done in his whole time of knowing him. Despite himself and his deep centred irritation towards him at the best of times, he and Arthur actually had a lot in common. They discussed politics together happily and he was pleasantly surprised that Arthur could match him for historical as well as contemporary actions and figures. They also shared a love of old cars and of being outdoors, though Arthur did not share his interest in maintaining a good physical appearance which, considering his constant messy hair, didn't really surprise him overly much. Francis couldn't really blame him however, it was only during his later years that Francis himself had started to become more active and concerned with how he looked; fashion and healthy eating was never something that bothered him below the age of 50.

A further similarity was that Arthur was very outspoken with his opinions; this Francis knew from personal encounters about himself, but he didn't know that Arthur liked to voice himself about bands, shows, art, history and politics so unashamedly. He found this admirably brave; at his current age Francis never felt many reasons to hold himself back from being true to his opinions, but he was not so bold when he was Arthur's age. To be honest with himself, Francis didn't think he and Arthur would have got along at all if they'd met during Francis' youth; Arthur was too blunt, too confident and too charismatic, almost. Francis was shy when he was younger, passive and happy to go along behind people like Arthur who lead the way, but not really mix with them much. He never was a decision maker, but was happy to go with life wherever it took him, a persona he now knew Arthur had never worn.

Their chatting help pass the time and blend in better as mere tourists. British customs, however, were more tedious and time consuming than their French counterpart in Calais. Francis was placed in a wheelchair, quite against his will, by Arthur who had to remain standing for twenty odd minutes whilst they went though the British passport checks and more metal detectors. Word must have been passed ahead, because Francis' lack of passport and their both lack of proper luggage were not questioned and Arthur was allowed to push him out and back to their car, where they quickly left.

Francis found the drive unexpectedly interesting. Unlike the French roads of the northern part of the country, the English motorways directly from Dover were often enclosed by hills of grass and trees on both sides before opening up to wide rolling, chalky hills which meant that Francis could see, briefly, for miles before they were once again swallowed up by a valley. At first he also found it quite disconcerting to drive on the left; he'd only visited England once, and as a small child at that, and could not remember much of the holiday besides the busses of London and a stay on a rainy beach somewhere.

Eventually, however, they arrived. Arthur's house was...different. It looked something like a pepper pot with a spout on top and a side building attached. Arthur, when he caught him looking from the car window with undisguised confusion, called it a converted _oast house*_ and informed him that they were actually quite common in this county. Francis huffed, 'no matter what it's called, it looks ridiculous.'

Arthur just glared at him. 'Well, sadly for you it's where you're going to have to stay for a while.' He got out of the car quickly, leaving Francis to lament upon his living conditions, and emptied the boot of their meagre possessions, dumping them near the front door before going back to collect Francis.

The house inside was dark, and smelt musty and unused. There were sheets on the sofas and Francis hovered in the hallway, propped up against a timbered wall, whilst Arthur set about throwing open windows and cleaning the sheets away so that Francis could sit down. At the first available chance to sit on an old sofa he took it, leaning back gingerly against the backrest and glancing about at his surroundings whilst Arthur brought in their luggage and dashed about trying to make things presentable. The house they were in was of a medium size, from what he could see on the sofa, and was decorated in a comfortable, rustic style, with wooden floors covered by rugs and large timbers set in white walls which bulged out and stretched their way across the ceiling. The furniture was relatively modern, a deep brown leather suit of sofas clustered around a dark oak coffee table that, along with a desk in the corner, a bookcase and a scattering of shelves matched the timbers. There was a small fireplace opposite the sofa set, next to which sat the good sized, yet outdated TV, which Arthur flicked on as he passed by it and chucked the remote to Francis. However, aside from a couple of landscape paintings on the walls and the odd ornament, the room was mostly bare of personal possessions. A few books lay on the shelves and in the bookcase, but they looked as though they were thrown on higgledy-piggledy or left behind, and there were no family photos or personal touches that gave an indication to who lived there. For some reason, Francis kept imagining that he could catch snatches of knowledge that told him the house's true potential, and he somehow knew for sure that it had only recently been left empty.

Arthur's hurried preparations of his house continued for the next few hours; there was nothing in the house, no food, no clean bedding and a whole lot to do before they could begin to relax or at least plan what they were going to do next. Arthur ordered them some food quickly from his phone on a rare break with Francis on the sofa, before he disappeared off again into different rooms, sometimes returning with armfuls of bedding to wash and then carry to the tumble dryer. It was nearly 7 in the evening by the time there were two beds made up and the house liveable and warm. Arthur had stopped for the pizza he had ordered but left most of it to Francis before grabbing an old laptop with an even older wireless dongle from upstairs and ordering food and essentials to be delivered from a supermarket online.

Francis' past few hours had been quite boring; between watching Arthur rush about the house and staring blankly at the English language TV programmes, he had napped; something his body seemed incredibly ready to do. 'I'll pop into town tomorrow to get you some proper clothes; I'll need some new ones myself.' Arthur spoke from over his laptop, eyes on the screen and tired face illuminated, distracting Francis from his eyes' wandering. 'There's nothing here for either of us to wear so we'll have to deal with what we've got for tonight.'

He placed the laptop on the coffee table, collected the dirty plates and vanished into the kitchen to wash up, but not before taking the remote from where it lay on Francis' armchair and changed the TV to a news station, issuing instructions for Francis to keep an eye out for a mention of them in the news. As he made his way back into the living room, Francis caught him.

'Arthur...' Francis was tired and his bones ached after spending a whole day squashed in a car without any way of stretching himself out. He also hadn't taken any medication for his heart but he knew that his curiosity would keep him awake and restless all night; he needed answers more than anything else.

Arthur glanced down at him from the doorway and nodded, understanding his unspoken question right away. 'I know.' He crossed back into the kitchen and opened a cupboard to reveal an old bottle of red wine, with a label Francis couldn't identify from the distance. Arthur then grabbed two glasses, came back to the living room and pushed the coffee table back so that he could sit right in front of Francis.

Francis fidgeted in agitation at being kept waiting and Arthur shot him a look which warned him to be patient before glancing down to the wine bottle, served Francis a generous portion and passed it to him.

'I never liked wine when I was younger.' Francis offered as small talk when he accepted the glass. The wine was a deep ruby red and smelt like summer berries. Arthur gave a small smile before he sat straight backed with hands clasped on one crossed leg, attention fully on Francis. 'Now, ask away.'

The first question was the one he had thought about for most of his life and it was not difficult to bring to mind. 'What is in that case?'

Arthur considered him seriously for a moment before flicking his eyes briefly at the case which rested on the sofa rest to Francis, untouched from when it had first been placed there. 'I don't know for sure, only that it's extremely important for the French government and must remain in safe hands.'

This easily led Francis to his next question. 'Why on earth is that person me? How on earth did it end up in my possession, and why leave it in my house for me to find if it's so important?'

'Again, I don't know the full details as I wasn't around at the time,' Arthur tried to give a small laugh but it sounded as though he'd choked. He poured himself some wine with practiced ease. 'You weren't chosen by anyone, as far as I'm aware; you volunteered.' He said, eyes on his task and seemingly avoiding eye contact.

Francis stared at him questioningly; mouth slightly open and his face morphed into a look of confusion. 'But, that's not possible-'

'-You were young,' Arthur interrupted and bent forward slightly so he rested more on his knees, wine glass balanced in his hand and speaking to Francis directly, eyes back to looking at him properly so that Francis finally see that he was taking this seriously, 'and were looking for a job, I think aged 22 or nearly that. You were stopped by someone who offered you some small change money to do a government issued personality survey, which you filled out and sent off, and then received about 20 Euros in your account later. As far as you know, that's the last you heard of it. What you actually did, was to fill in a personality questionnaire and not read the terms and conditions.' Arthur gave a rueful smile and swirled the wine in his glass. 'You signed up for the survey but were considered an ideal candidate so you were progressed further, as you must have said that they could do with your data.' Arthur shifted on the coffee table and paused to take a sip of wine. He made a face at the taste, but drank more anyway before elaborating further.

'What's in the case is too important to be guarded anywhere high risk, thus the French government's beautiful, and not at all stupid, idea was to leave it with an unsuspecting member of their public.'

Francis made to speak and Arthur raised an eyebrow and continued, ignoring his attempted interruption, 'I'm not saying I agree, but hear me out. They didn't chose anyone known, or any of their agents involved with it directly, because the contents was, and is, deemed too luring; anyone aware about it or anyone too close to the government's inner circle, anyone with any sort of power or position really, could use the contents against the case's owner. The best thing to do, therefore, was loan it to a citizen of no status, no power, no possible way to attack the government or learn about what it is he's guarding.' Arthur finished off his glass and made to refill it. 'And that's where you come into this.'

Francis shook his head and gave a nervous laugh. 'Now really, Arthur, this- I can't be! _Allors_, listen to yourself! This is ridiculous, surely? I mean,' Francis indicated to himself, 'look at me! This is too much of a risk, no? And all that hassle for a single case? I found it in my loft, after all, in an old house where the previous owner had left it behind.' Francis gripped his glass and looked at Arthur beseechingly, but the other man avoided his gaze. 'Please, _cher_, be serious, if it's truly important then perhaps the old owner of my house chose to leave it behind as the job was too much for him. I just _found_ it, I most certainly was not _given _it.'

Arthur shook his head dismissively, a gesture Francis found annoying. 'Francis, I'm sorry but I can't tell you anything different; you were young and jobless which is what they were looking for; you didn't travel much abroad, knew no other foreign languages, had no connections with anyone in the government of any particular country and you had no criminal record and no high ambition. You were an only child with elderly parents from a small family contained in a small area. You came along at the right time and they chose you. It was chance.'

Francis shook his head again in insistent denial. 'No, Arthur, it makes no sense! I could have got a job later; I could have moved away and I could have opened the case or something! There was no way for them to kno-'

'Francis, listen to me.' Arthur sounded frustrated and when Francis glanced at him he looked or the verge of allowing irritation to show on his face; ears were red and his eyebrows were starting to look stern. Arthur usually varied between being completely devoid of any visible emotion, to being extremely expressive and then to being unable to contain how he felt. He was a person who could chose; he could be emotional, or he could not. This half and half was strange; the fact that Arthur was struggling to remain impassive meant that either this situation was a lot closer to him personally than he had so far revealed, or he was trying too hard to convince Francis of a lie.

'You asked me to be truthful, and I'm trying to be. The whole thing managed to work so well because they took your decisions out of the plan; they managed your life for you to ensure both yours and your charge's safety and like it or not, that's the truth.' A thick, tension filled silence fell between them at that last bit of news and Francis found himself being unable to tune out the babbling of the TV niggling in the background, which had faded to an incomprehensible buzz that clawed at his attention; anything to offer an escape to this conversation. He stared at it and he sipped at his wine, trying to hold back the hysterical rage building up within him. How _dare_ he….

After a few moments Arthur broke the silence again, voice calm and authoritative and emotions settled back into control. 'I'm not deceiving you, I'm _informing_ you. You asked, and this is the answer. You, Francis Bonnefoy had no control in any of these decisions, which is why this has worked so well for so many years. You don't believe it's you who was chosen, and thus nor does, or did, anybody else.'

Arthur waited for a response but, upon Francis' refusal to add more to this ridiculous discussion, he tried again to make him see sense. 'You were the first to fit the profile they were looking for; it was done as simply as that. The plan worked, and worked well, for many years! What I need to work out now is _how_ and _why_ it stopped working; who actually managed to track the case down and back to you.'

He run the hand not holding his glass through his hair and muttered, almost more to himself than to Francis, 'This has never happened before; it's always worked perfectly and now I'm stuc-'

'Oh poor you,' Francis spat, finally breaking his silence, 'poor you, sitting here with your tiny dilemma. What on earth are you to do now?'

Arthur gave a small grimace. 'Francis...'

Francis fixed his eyes back on him and _glared, _'I'm sorry, am I being difficult? Am I not making this _easy_ for you? Oh _do_ forgive me.'

'Francis I didn't mean it like that I meant that I-'

'I don't care what you meant!' Heat coursed through his chest and ignited the voice in his throat. He put the glass down. 'What _I_ mean is that you're telling me my life was controlled by the government? How on earth do you expect me to believe that? How did I go my entire life not realising that I was the pawn on the republic?'

Arthur tried to explain quickly, 'It's not what you're thinking of; it worked because it was subtle! They arranged for a restaurant to give you a chance, one in which they had connections to the owner but you had started looking at it for a job anyway! They found a house in the area you were searching to live in and knocked down the price, changed the lease and dismissed the landlord. The house was government owned property, but it was your choice to go. The government had nothing to do with you purchasing it.'

The anger helped adrenaline run through his body and allowed him to raise his voice to cover Arthur's own; probably to the loudest he'd gone in years. 'And that makes it okay?! Heh, you really want me to believe this don't you?'

He shook his head in denial whilst Arthur tried very hard to calm him down, speaking again in a more soothing voice, 'Francis, I don't want you to believe anything, it's just-'

'It's just?' Francis sat back more, away from Arthur now. If he was young enough he would have walked away by now, either that or thrown a punch at Arthur just to make him _shut up_. 'Just what? Just a small thing; just that my life was controlled, apparently, by my government for more than 50 years and I knew nothing about this until today? It's just that I'm being told all this by you- how do you know this anyway? Why are you even _here_?'

'It's been a long job, I'm just the next in line to make sure the case-'

Francis held up a hand to stop him. 'Does it look like I care about that damned thing?!'

Arthur fell silent and Francis could see the tension in his jaw as he clenched his teeth in his vow to remain calm and controlled. How long had he practised for this? Or had he hoped to never have this conversation? Francis didn't want to allow himself to dwell upon those issues as that would mean he would be admitting to himself that this whole charade was true.

Arthur placed his glass down as well, finally giving up the pretence that this was only a nice little chat, and tried to explain further. 'Your life was not controlled; it's not what you're thinking. Yes, I admit that your internet history was monitored; and certain variables were controlled to you to keep you in the country, but that was the worst of it!' He leant further forwards and tried to look reasonable, face calm and hands upturned and spread apart. 'Francis, being chosen for the job wasn't your _choice_ but originally you-'

'No! No, you will not do this to me.' Francis jabbed a shaking finger in Arthur's direction furiously. 'I have not come all this way; I have not suffered through attempted _murder,_ and waited for answers this whole time just to have you tell me that I signed up for this willingly. I will not!'

His chest felt tight, like it was being squashed, and found that he had drawn his left hand to his chest as he began gasping for a breath. Arthur saw him realise this and made to stand to help him but Francis shot him a look that dared him to even _try_.

'My whole life is _mine_!' he managed to hiss at the younger man, 'I chose it, I am in charge of it; no one else! I did not chose to look after that- that _thing_, and I will not have _you_-' Francis struggled to carry enough air in his lungs to continue, 'I will not have _you_ of all people tell me otherwise.' Arthur had inched towards him more on the table and bent towards him, trying to take his hand away from his chest before speaking to him in a placating voice, 'Okay Francis just-'

Francis angrily hit his hands away and Arthur recoiled, seemingly shocked by his unexpected refusal. 'I trusted you!' His voice could barely go higher than speaking level and he wheezed between every other word; his chest _hurt_. 'I called you back because I thought you could help me! I thought-' he tried to laugh but the air caught in his lungs and his throat tightened around nothing, 'I thought that you would understand; I thought you would take me seriously but, instead-,' he gasped, 'instead you-' he couldn't continue; his heart wouldn't stop beating, slamming into his rib cage, and his lungs felt as though they had shrunk in his chest. He dimly heard Arthur mention something like 'water' over the pounding of his own blood in his ears before his mind shut down and his vision went black, the burn in his chest distracting him from everything else.

* * *

><p><em>Francis also has always remembered another memory, this time from when he was 12. His parents were fond of travelling and ever since Francis was old enough to reliably sit on an aeroplane without causing severe harm to other passengers' stress levels, him and his parents had been holidaying abroad in Spain or Portugal. On this particular year, his parents took him to explore around a small village in Spain near to the city they were staying in which boasted impressive walks and an old castle on a hilltop. His mother had taken a fancy to a small gift shop strategically placed by the train station in the centre of town towards the end of the visit and had pulled his father inside with her, leaving Francis to dawdle unimpressed by the front entrance after he stubbornly refused to accompany them inside. He looked up from a small rock he was rolling under his trainer and by happenstance his gaze landed on the form of a young man crossing the road in front of him. He was well dressed, more suited to the city than a village, but seemed to be heading away from the station rather that to it. Francis quickly deduced that he must work there but live here; nowhere in this small place required that smart a dress, surely. Halfway through crossing the man must have felt Francis' stare as he glanced up and locked eyes with him. His step faltered momentarily but he carried on his way, offering Francis a smile and a wave as he crossed to the other side, brown head getting harder to see between the bobbing of people, before disappearing behind a house. The memory is so banal that Francis always wondered why it's one of the ones he remembers the most.<em>

* * *

><p>He awoke in a bed. He was propped on what felt like a mountain of pillows, under a good amount of blankets, to alleviate any pressure from his chest. He woke up slowly, one part of him regaining life at a time; his body felt loose and refreshed after what felt like a long, deep sleep in a soft, warm bed. As he slowly focused in on the world he made the comparison to how much better this was than sleeping screwed up on himself in the car filled with tension.<p>

This then, of course, led on to _why_ he was in a car for so long in the first place.

Francis sighed and turned his head slightly to stare at the window. Arthur had drawn the windows to with thick, dark curtains that completely blocked out the light; cutting off his only means of determining the time, which meant he had no idea how long he'd been asleep or what part of the day it was. He felt perfectly awake and refreshed, however, and thus assumed that he'd at least slept the equivalent of a whole night. The other benefit of sleeping, other than allowing the body to recuperate and relax into better health, was the positive effect it had on the mental state. Francis had always been of the opinion that any problem could be solved after it had been slept on; the mind could focus on the logical issues it faced rather than the accompanying emotional connotations which usually made making a sensible decision difficult.

After a full good night's sleep, then, Francis felt better. Although he didn't agree with Arthur's delivery, his ludicrous story _could_ have grounds to be true, but there was so much that still needed explaining for Francis to even give him the slightest benefit of the doubt. He still felt angry; it burned strong in his chest and made his stomach clench, but it was more towards his situation and his utter helplessness than at Arthur himself.

He gave a deep sigh and closed his eyes; focusing on steadying his breathing and trying to make himself relax. He stayed that way for a while, sorting through all of the previous day's events and trying to make sense of them all. Arthur seemed sincere; at least in his efforts to help Francis to safety and to keep him alive. And his explanation was just probable enough to be possible; Francis had gone throughout all of his adult life hearing horror stories about the government, of his country and others, about them covering up what they didn't want the general public to know and pursuing their interests for the supposed greater good, no matter the cost. It was _possible_, he supposed, but Francis didn't want it to be true, he didn't want to consider the possibility that his whole life was someone else's construct. It was soul destroying and thinking about it in full, even briefly made him feel numb and his heart race with the terror of being manipulated so seamlessly for so long.

But...

Despite its ring of truth, Arthur's story wasn't wholly correct. For some reason, Francis knew that Arthur was either lying about parts of it, or he wasn't telling the whole truth. He reached up a hand to brush back his hair and made a face at the feel; he needed a wash. Preferably a _bath_ but really anything that had clean, warm water, though for that he'd need Arthur's help.

It was strange; Arthur had been helping him bath for a few years now, yet despite what they'd been through previously and the events of the past day Francis now felt... almost uncomfortable by the thought of it. Almost as if he was embarrassed for Arthur to see him, which was a ridiculous thing to be shy about _now_, but there seemed to be something about him Francis now felt almost wary of. But even wary didn't seem like the right word.

He signed and stared again at the curtains, trying to guess the time to see if it was worth attempting to get up. Something just didn't feel right about Arthur's involvement in all of this, aside from the total absurdity of it all, but now that he was a lot calmer and more prepared Francis was now ready to hear the whole story again in full; ready to listen carefully and start picking apart the threads to find the truth.

Luckily, he didn't have to wait long. After half an hour of Francis mulling things over to himself, he heard a small knock at the door before Arthur poked his head through.

'Ah good, you're awake.'

He opened the door fully to reveal himself fully and carrying a glass of water.

'How long have I been asleep?' Arthur crossed the room to the bed and placed the glass down on the bedside table without answering. He then helped Francis to sit up and then handed him the water before he responded. 'About 10 hours or so, it's 6 am now; a rather good sleep for you, really.'

Francis ignored the sarcastic after comment and accepted the water gratefully before drinking most of it quickly in a few gulps.

'What are you doing awake this early?'

The other man paused for a second. 'I've got a lot of things to sort out now that we're here.' He supplied in response, and then eyed Francis carefully. 'How are you feeling?'

Francis avoided eye contact and moved his hand away slightly when Arthur reached to take the glass back; only looking up after Arthur had retracted his hand and had taken the unspoken request to give him some space. 'Better; I don't feel tired or as highly strung, anyway.'

Arthur gave a crooked smile. He looked guarded, as if trying to read Francis for a way to proceed but getting nothing helpful. Francis realised he'd have to make the offer before Arthur was to do anything and so decided to say what he made up his mind on during the time he'd been awake.

'I'd like you to tell me again; from the beginning. I want to hear it all, and I want you to answer all of my questions without any excuses; just the bare, detailed facts. Please, Arthur,' Francis leant forward and grabbed a hold of Arthur's hand, catching the other man by surprise and breaking the tension between them slightly, 'I don't want justification and I don't want a rose tinted version of anything. Nor do I want a cover up or any missing crucial details. This is my _life_ you were talking about, not some story.'

For a second Francis imagined that Arthur had given his hand a quick squeeze, but before he could focus on the sensation properly he had gently slipped his hand from Francis' grasp and had placed it on his hip. 'Okay. I admit I was a bit short with describing it to you yesterday; I'll start afresh slower. I didn't take the time to consider that this obviously means a lot more to you than to me and I didn't account for your feelings properly when explaining; for that I apologise.' Arthur looked away awkwardly; Francis could only guess that he was too unused to speaking in such a way.

Francis sighed. 'No, it's not only you; I got angry at you, when I shouldn't have done.' If Arthur was willing to admit to his bad behaviour, then it was only right that Francis cleared the air on his side as well. 'It's not your fault, for whatever's happened. You weren't even born when this started, if it's true.' Did Arthur just look guilty then? Francis dismissed it as, upon a second observation, Arthur's expression hadn't changed. But there was something...in his body language maybe? In his presence?

'But please, consider this from my point of view,' Francis's heart skipped a beat as he uttered the words, the possibility of this being the truth staring him right in the face, 'What would you do, if you suddenly realised that the life you'd lived was never truly your own? If what you told me is true...' He took a deep, steadying breath and tried to continue without the waver threatening to break through his voice becoming apparent. 'If what you've told me is true then my life, hasn't really been mine, has it?'

Arthur reached out a hand to grab Francis' shoulder, with a look on his face that Francis couldn't quite give a name to, but stopped at the last moment, leaving his hand dangling there redundantly. He reclaimed it slowly and considered him for a moment before sitting on the edge of the bed silently, alert green eyes focusing on him.

'Before we go through this again just answer me this,' this was the question that had been nagging him yesterday and all of the time he'd been awake today, the little whisper tugging at his hear that he couldn't quite tune out. It was the one that meant the most.

'How much of it has been a lie?'

Arthur stared back at him; unmoving with a face frozen between emotions from being finally caught off guard.

'And by a lie...' Francis continued, hesitantly, 'I mean how much of my life have I actually been in control of?'

Arthur tightened his lips but his eyes softened, as if trying to stop himself from saying something too comforting but being unable to wish the sentiment away.

'I told you yesterday; Francis, I know this is hard for you, and by "know" of course I can't even _begin_ to understand how you feel,' He seemed to place a little too much emphasis on the 'begin', either that or the intonation just seemed _off_, 'but it's not as bad as it sounds. You made all the decisions and you chose and changed every aspect of your life according to what was available to you. So, while _yes_ some of those options were laid out for you, there was never a point where you were not in control of what was going on.'

'But my life itself was still planned, no? It still had an end goal, designed by someone else.'

'Well...'

'And I merely selected my desired cards from an incomplete deck that another hand intentionally drew; the outcome was always fixed wasn't it?'

Arthur said nothing and Francis continued; questions tumbling from his lips as his mind latched onto what it finally realised was the puzzle piece that never fit properly in Arthur's story.

'You say this was a random selection of a random citizen who willingly and unknowingly signed himself up for this whole business, but how on earth would they know me so well? If my life was as much my own as you say, then how could anyone factor in so much, like my personality or habits, and then plan that it would all go according to plan? Would one quiz show them so much? If so, then I surely would remember such intrusive questions.'

He breathed in, collected his thoughts and arranged them. He continued, 'How do you know this? Why do you know this? If, as you said, I was a free man all along, why were you in the care home in the first place? And why you, an Englishman, of all people? Why not a member of the French government?'

Their conversation had shifted, Arthur had gone from supportive and comforting to guarded and tense whilst Francis had gone from willing and accepting to eager to pick fault; eager to gain back some of the control he'd not realised he'd lost from their relationship. Since this had started he's never even considered the two of them anything but equals both caught in a random event. But now...

But now so much seemed to be built on shaky ground. All that Francis knew about the case and even the attempt on his life he knew from what Arthur had told him. None of it he knew for himself by his own seeing. The escape from the home, the security cameras being conveniently off and the place empty with open gates; too much felt _wrong_. Why would the place be empty? How could all of the residents be hidden; the staff be coerced into either leaving for the night or joining in? And no resistance? Furthermore, it wasn't possible to change shifts unless there was a good reason, more so for almost an entire shift change. And if the other workers were responsible for all of this, didn't that also mean that Arthur could be intricately involved in all of this, playing the 'good cop' in a 'bad cop' play?

'_It's not so much what I did, it's what I failed to do.' _Arthur's words from yesterday came to the front of his thoughts. What had he failed to do? Why _was_ he in France? And involved in all of this? Just how long had Arthur been involved; been part of this plan to somehow shape and direct his life? Where did Arthur's position in this lie; if he was protecting Francis and the case that meant he would have had to have been involved beforehand, but where? When Francis got his first nurse? When his wife had died? When and why did Arthur suddenly appear in all of this?

Looking back, he had been _led_ by Arthur all along, none of what had happened to them had been his idea; none of it was of his choosing but it was he who was the most affected by it all. Arthur was too calm, too planned out and his reactions too _perfect_. Francis was the one alone in a strange country where he couldn't speak the language, had no currency and thus no way of getting back again. He couldn't walk far or go and get food unaided and he couldn't survive for long without medication that he'd need someone else to order for him.

He was trapped here.

His thoughts flashed through his brain and he focused onto and processed each one before jumping to the next. The whirl in his brain was finally brought to a stop by Arthur, who had gently laid a hand on Francis' arm and was gripping it softy.

'Francis, please, you're going to have to trust me and let me explain. I'm not trying to deceive you.'

Francis gave a sad laugh and Arthur tried to not show any traces of exasperation, though Francis could sense it building anyway. Instead the younger man tried to look more cheerful and forced a smile; mouth still tight and eyes unreadable. 'But first let's both get some food in us and freshen up a little; it'll be easier to talk once you're up properly and I've had some more caffeine. Can't have you 'croaking' on me, eh?' He patted Francis' arm cordially and rose from the bed before looking down at him with a smile.

Francis recognised Arthur's attempt at their old banter as a way of him trying to move the conversation off an apparently difficult subject. After all, if it was as clear cut and simple as Arthur was trying to make it out to be, he wouldn't be so irked by Francis questions to try to avoid them. A simple answer was usually the truth; avoidance indicated a lie. What was the difference between talking now or later? If he had nothing to hide, why delay answering?

Something clicked in his head that he'd unintentionally asked the wrong question to start with, or, in his case, the _right_ question. What if he had gone downstairs when first asked and let the matter drop? He could easily have been talked into accepting a logical story, something Arthur had thought over long and hard to fill in all the gaps, but by asking the right question, by luck, he'd broken enough holes in the story before Arthur had even had a change to plan a counter-attack.

Forcing himself to make eye contact with the other man, Francis shook his head. 'I'm not going anywhere until you answer me with the whole truth. And I mean it.'

Arthur stared back at him, eyes calculating, and said nothing.

'After all, upon what grounds can I trust you when you're not telling me something?' He said imploringly, _desperate_ now that Arthur would do or say something that would break him from his horrid new image Francis was building of him.

'I'm sure you mean well, but I want to know now. Now point in delaying, _lapin, _if you have nothing to hide_._' He attempted a smile but leant away from Arthur, resting more against the headboard of the bed and making obvious his intentions to stay.

Arthur stayed silent for a while, holding eye contact with him and considering him carefully. Finally, he nodded. 'Okay then Francis. We can do that.'

Francis gave a sign of relief and sat up again happily. _'Mon cher_, I'm really glad you said that-'

All of a sudden, Arthur lunged forward. Francis' dull reflexes worked enough to register hands on his cheeks, the feeling of panic in his heart and the force of his head being twisted to the side.

He died quickly.

* * *

><p>Arthur took the shower curtains off from around the bath before turning with them and carrying them downstairs to the kitchen, where he left them. The old tiled floor was freezing his bare feet, so he made his way as quickly and as light-footedly as possible into the living room, throwing open the old curtains before making his way across to the armchair in the corner where the briefcase sat atop their meagre luggage. He picked it up before holding it in his hands, bouncing it slightly to test its weight.<p>

'Well then, finally time to return this.'

* * *

><p><strong>AN<strong>:

Woah Nelly Nora, I'm still here and this is still going! Hope you're all still okay following this along through the many months between updates; if there are any inconsistencies that you've spotted when reading any of the chapters please let me know, as well as if this fits with the previous depictions of their characters and general flow of the story.

Please enjoy the newest chapter and thank you very much for sticking with me thus far; see you soon!

~AHWH~


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